


risen like a midnight sun (welcome to the night)

by leigh_adams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_humpdrabbles, Community: rarepair_shorts, Cross-Generation Relationship, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 30,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh_adams/pseuds/leigh_adams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Harry Potter drabbles and ficlets. You can find character and pairing combinations at the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1137157/navigate">chapter index.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild Hearts (Oliver Wood/Romilda Vane)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking a page out of [elle_blessing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_blessing/pseuds/Elle%20Blessingway)'s book and consolidating all my drabbles and not-quite-fics into one large post. I write a lot of drabbles and little fics, and posting them all individually gets tedious. This "story" will be updated frequently, so stay tuned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Humpathon 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/144278.html) at LiveJournal.

_"Have dinner with me."_

_"No."_

It was a familiar exchange of dialogue, repeated often over the past six months. Romilda Vane was not a domestic type -- she wasn't hoping to bad the hottest Quidditch player in the sport. When Oliver Wood had walked into her life nearly a year ago, she'd chalked it up to a happy twist of fate. He was tall, handsome, and fit to boot -- and just as adept at controlling his broom as he was at making her scream in orgasm.

Dinner. Routine. It all meant the same thing: _settling_.

Did it matter that there were at least a thousand (likely more) girls who would literally kill (or at least, maim) to be in her position? Since he'd been called up as starting Keeper for Puddlemere United, Oliver had fended over ten proposals, found six love potions in his post, and had to file two restraining orders after a particularly racy photo shoot with _Witch Weekly_ had ruffled the feathers of every housewitch from London to Newcastle.

(Not that Romy could blame them. She'd seen the physique beneath that leather kit -- it more than matched the rest of him).

_"Have dinner with me."_

_"I don't think so."_

It wasn't for her. Being a partner, the dutiful girlfriend. That sort of thing... she had no interest in it. With a distant mother who'd abandoned her daughter and a stepfather looking to arrange a marriage for her, she'd run as far away from that as she could -- into the beds of countless partners, in and out of Europe's hottest nightclubs.

She was wild at heart. It was one of the many things that attracted Oliver to her. He'd told her that a month after they'd met.

Running his hands along her naked breasts, he'd casually remarked on her unique beauty. When his lips suckled her pulse point, fingertips flicking to tease her nipples, he'd murmured about how he couldn't get his mind off of her curves. Pulling her dress up to bare her naked lower body -- _no knickers_ \-- to his gaze, he'd run a hand over the dampness between her thighs and groaned.

Burying himself to the hilt inside of her, he confessed himself a man bewitched.

_"Have dinner with me."_

_"Oliver, really?"_

"Yes, really." 

Romy blinked, jolted from the cadence of their give-and-take by something new. "Oliver, you know --"

"Yes, I ken better than most me, Romy," he replied, Scottish brogue thick with untoward emotion. "I ken that you'll never let anyone close to ye, even if that's all they want. To be there for their lass." He jerked his boots on and reached for his wand. "Ye drive me mad, Romy, but I can't take it anymore."

She sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around her waist. "Oliver, what are you saying?"

"I'm sayin' I won't be asking for ye to have dinner with me -- not until ye ask me. And I won't be seein you again til then." He paused, his hand on the door, and she barely heard the added, "If ever again."

Glancing over his shoulder, he shook his head. "Goodbye, Romy." In the silence following his departure, a sudden pain lanced through her chest; as if a million curses hit her all at once.

She'd not known her wild heart could break until that moment.


	2. I Feel A Sin Comin' On (James Sirius Potter/Pansy Parkinson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Humpathon 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/144278.html) at LiveJournal.

It was, she supposed, horribly gauche. Women of breeding such as herself didn't do things like this. They didn't frequent dingy back-alley bars, imbibe bad scotch, and ignore everything their mothers ever told them about _decorum_ and _polite society_. And they certainly didn't shoot whiskey and smoke cigarettes _alone_ , let alone in the company of others. 

Pansy didn't give a damn about those things -- after all she'd been through, she'd earned the right to flip two fingers to society's rules.

Because good, Pureblooded women didn't pick up strangers in bars. No, they went through carefully arranged marriages, popped out an heir and a spare, and looked the other way when their husband took up a mistress. (They _always_ took up with a mistress).

But really, when said stranger was tall, dark, and handsome as the man between her legs, who could blame her?

When his eyes met hers across the dimly lit room, she'd felt a shiver ripple down to her bones. Dark, tousled hair and a devil-may-care grin -- just her type of poison. The little voice in her head (that sounded suspiciously like Astoria) goaded, _"Why not?"_

Astoria's voice was the _last_ thing on her mind at the moment, though. At that moment, she could only hum and writhe in pleasure as her lover's lips and tongue caressed her. Strong hands were tight around her thighs, supporting her as her knees quivered. The dank brick, cool against her heated skin, scraped her shoulders when his tongue flicked her swollen nub, eliciting another gasp.

Blue eyes flickered down at him in annoyance, meeting the amused green gaze of James Sirius Potter. "If you stop, I will kill you slowly," she breathed in warning, fisting one hand through his hair and _jerking_.

"Careful," he warned, blowing hot breath over the damp flesh he'd been tormenting only moments before. "I might enjoy that."

She hissed, unable to stop her hips from shifting towards him. One leg slid up and hooked over his shoulder, the tip of her stiletto pressing into the small of his back. _"Potter..."_

Pansy didn't miss the darkening of his eyes, the sharp breath at her little prod. So the Potter progeny liked a bit of spice with his play... she filed the knowledge away for a later liaison. (Because there would be one -- if he was as good with the rest of his body as he was with his tongue, there was no doubt there would be another time).

His lips curled. "Was that so difficult? All you had to do was threaten."

Her barbed retort died on her lips as he buried his head between her legs once more, pulling a low moan from her lips. Pleasure rushed her center and spread through her belly and legs.

James Sirius Potter was a sin she could get quite used to.


	3. Got A Secret, Can You Keep It? (Percy Weasley/Hermione Granger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Humpathon 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/144278.html) at LiveJournal.

Weaknesses. Everyone has them. In Hermione's second favorite book, the dictionary (the first being _Hogwarts: A History_ ), the word 'weakness' was defined as "a self-indulgent liking or special fondness, as for a particular thing." Humans are weak by nature, Hermione had long since realized -- after all, hadn't they seen evidence enough of that during their school years?

Hermione Granger had a weakness for freckles. Everyone knew that. Tiny, faint ones that dusted over the bridge of someone's nose. Darker speckles drawn in broad strokes across pale skin, acting as a road map for her fingertips. 

A lesser known fact was her weakness for glasses.

Particularly, the pair perched on the nose of the man above her. The freckles dusted across his face were darker than his brother's -- she would know; she'd examined both patterns closely over the years. This Weasley touched her differently than Ron, though; every touch was precise, calculated to stroke desire to its highest potential. 

The tip of one long finger touched -- _barely, teasing_ \-- her swollen nub, causing her hips to jerk towards him in response. Moisture pooled between her legs, enabling his lithe fingers to move in and out of her sex with ease. 

Her fingertips clutched at his back, leaving little half-moon indentions in his skin; mapping the expanse in crescent moons with freckles for stars. He rolled his hips, and she moaned when he removed his fingers and thrust into her.

"Makes sense," Percy breathed on an exhale, bracing himself on his forearms above her.

Hermione hummed in pleasure. "What?"

"This." His hand slipped between their bodies to knead her breast. He flicked the tip of her nipple, his lips twitching when she gasped. "You and me."

" _Oh._ " Her grip on his back tightened. "Just between us?"

Percy's lips slanted over hers. "For now," he murmured. "With our history..."

"...Your family." _Your brother_ the unspoken phrase.

"It's just --"

" _Logical_ ," they finished together. 

Locking her legs around his hips, Hermione surged against him, using her momentum to roll so that she straddled his waist. His blue eyes were dark as they gazed up at her, lingering on her breasts. He swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing. " _Gods._ "

Placing her hand on his chest to brace herself, she used her thighs to lift herself up, then sank back down. Her lips made a soft 'O' of pleasure. "Percy?"

His hands gripped her hips. "Hermione?"

"I need to not talk for a few minutes." She clenched around him, pulling a groan from the typically composed man lying beneath her. 

"Whatever you want.


	4. Take It Off (Scorpius Malfoy/Lily Luna Potter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Humpathon 2013]() at LiveJournal.

In Scorpius' defense, he'd never meant for it to happen. 

But really, what was any warm-blooded, heterosexual male supposed to do in his situation? It had been a perfect storm ripe for disaster right from the beginning.

 **One** \-- he'd broken up with his girlfriend of two years. Found her shagging Sebastian Montague in _their_ bed. Needless to say, his day had not started well.

 **Two** \-- his best friend of Merlin only knew _how_ many years had decided that, in light of the circumstances, it was a capital idea to get him pissed beyond belief. 

**Three** \-- Lily Luna Potter _knew_ he had a weak constitution (not that he would _ever_ admit it). But what did the witch order three -- or was it four? -- rounds of? Tequila.

 **Four** \-- Said saucy witch had worn an outfit he was certain she'd never worn around him before. When called upon to describe it, words failed him. All Scorpius knew was that it was tight and possibly leather, and it practically pushed her tits up to her chin.

So really, was it any surprise that four shots and two firewhiskeys later, his face was buried between said tits?

Scorpius had no idea what it was -- possibly the tequila. Maybe it was the angst over a broken relationship, or maybe he was just randy beyond belief. Maybe the alcohol had opened his eyes and let him see what was right in front of him -- Lily Luna was a bloody _gorgeous_ witch.

All he knew was that here, in the back corridor of this run-down club off Piccadilly Circus, he was seeing a side of his friend he'd never seen before. The witch beneath his hands writhed and panted, little nails digging half-moons into his back as she clutched at him. His lips mauled at her skin and left wet, open kisses along her heaving chest. It felt all too natural to grasp at her thigh and hitch it up around his waist. 

His free hand grasped at her top and pulled it down to expose her black silk bra. Lily's head fell back and hit the wall as she sighed, threading her fingers through his blonde locks. When he slid his hand underneath the silk to cup her breast, she moaned his name.

It was like she'd doused him in kerosene and lit a match. There was only one way the night was going to end -- with Lily naked in his bed, red hair and pale limbs spread out on his dark sheets.

First things first, though. Those leather trousers had to go.


	5. A Schoolboy's Dream, You Act So Shy (Viktor Krum/Rose Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Humpathon 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/144278.html) at LiveJournal.

In a family of Quidditch enthusiasts, Rose didn't particularly stand out. She had two aunts and three cousins who played professionally, but she herself had never played the game in her life. The first (and last) time her Dad took her up on his broom, she'd vomited all over him. 

It seemed a fear of heights was not conducive to a career as a professional Quidditch player.

But when it came to a true love of the game, she was unsurpassed. Her first toy as a child was a plushie golden snitch (that she still kept on her nightstand). She could name all seven hundred official fouls (her Uncle Harry had let her see the full list on a visit to the Ministry; she could neither confirm nor deny making a copy). Her walls were plastered with posters of her favorite squad (the Pride of Portree, much to her dad's chagrin). 

And like every self-respecting Quidditch aficionado, she had her favorite player. It wasn't her Aunt Ginny or her Aunt Angie -- though she _did_ enjoy watching them play. She'd never seen her Quidditch hero play -- he'd retired before she even started Hogwarts. 

But there was something about Viktor Krum that she couldn't get out of her mind. 

What had started as a childhood fascination with the Bulgarian seeker had evolved into something _deeper_. Whenever she thought of him -- his unconventional features, the streaks of gray hair at his temples, those dark eyes -- it made something warm deep in her belly; a feeling that, as she'd grown older, she recognized as sexual desire.

She had the hots for Viktor Krum. And sometimes, that made women do things they wouldn't normally do.

So she'd spent nearly an entire paycheck on a ticket to the League's annual charity gala ( _It's for charity_ , she told herself while resigning to a month's worth of cheap noodles for dinner), borrowed a pair of too-tight heels from Dominique's closet; they pinched her toes, but she could see the allure -- her legs looked _fabulous_. Her dark auburn hair was pulled up in an elegant chignon, and her cocktail dress hugged the little curves she could boast.

Gone was Rosie Weasley. In her place was a new person, the kind of woman who knew what she want and got it.

Viktor Krum was a hard man to get alone, and Rose was not a natural flirt. But a few well-timed smiles and she found herself standing next to the man who occupied her dreams. 

"You're a hard man to catch, Mr. Krum," she said in a throaty voice she hardly recognized as her own. But when those dark eyes turned to meet hers, she said a silent prayer of thanks for what Lily Luna called her 'bedroom voice.'

"I am sorry," he apologized gruffly in accented English. "I am still not comfortable with this sort of thing." He offered his hand to hers in greeting.

Her breath caught when she slipped her hand in his, feeling the callouses against her soft fingers. It was so easy to think of those hands elsewhere; to imagine them sliding over her neck and down against her breasts, rubbing circles around her nipples before slipping beneath her dress to make her writhe. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks, matched by a reaction equally as powerful between her legs. 

Why hadn't she packed one of those temporary love potions from the shop? _Dammit_.

"I am Viktor," he said, bringing her hand up to press a kiss to the back of it. "What is your name?"

"Rose," she answered with a slow, enticing smile. "Just Rose."


	6. Masquerade (Paper Faces on Parade) (Zacharias Smith/Astoria Greengrass)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [bluemermaid](http://bluemermaid.livejournal.com) as part of HP Halloween's 2012 fest.

"I have done some pretty stupid things over the years -- including that time with a geisha and a flock of flamingos -- but I do believe this takes the cake."

"Smith?"

"Greengrass?"

"It's just a ball. You can drop the theatrics."

"No, this is a poncy parade of... well, ponce. Besides, woman, you don't know who I am. I'm wearing a mask, see?"

"An excellent definition, and your glare gave you away. But I'll see if Edward can include that on the event description next year. And might I say, the horns atop your mask are quite fitting."

"I thought so. What's the point of the masks, anyway? This thing itches."

"We've already been over this. It's a _masquerade_ ball because it's Halloween. _And_ this is for charity, so quit complaining."

"Charity. Hmph. Is that what you were doing, dancing with Malfoy earlier?"

"Jealous? _You_ don't have a right to be."

"Hardly. But I'm only here because of you."

"Yet you wouldn't come as my date. Because Zacharias Smith doesn't do 'together,' he does... casual."

"I'm reconsidering that stance."

"Oh?"

"On one condition."

"Which is?"

"I see what's under that dress later tonight."

"I believe I can agree to those terms."


	7. Rules of Attraction (Viktor Krum/Hermione Granger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writte for [gamma_x_orionis](http://gamma_x_orionis.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

Hermione Granger had never been like the other girls. 

It'd been that way for as long as she could remember. While other girls at her village school wanted to play house and arrange marriages for their Barbie dolls, she preferred to spend her time reading as many books as she could get her hands on. Roald Dahl, Susan Cooper, Judy Blume, Lois Lowry; Hermione had lost herself in the library. It was her safety blanket, a place she could retreat to when she didn't like the world around her.

She was confident but not cocky. A loner the schoolgirls had teased about her big teeth and bushy hair. The brainiac the boys didn't understand and were secretly intimidated by. A weirdo.

Finding out about Hogwarts hadn't shocked her. In fact, she'd been relieved. For her ten years of life, she'd felt out of place -- like an adult inhabiting a child's body. Learning there was something _different_ , something tangible to set her apart... it made her feel more at ease.

Life hadn't changed at Hogwarts. Well, not beyond the obvious parts of being a child thrust into a magical world. It had taken a while and extraordinary circumstances -- namely, a mountain troll -- to form any sort of friendship. 

It wasn't as if she _shunned_ her female classmates. They were just... different.

Lavender and Parvati giggled about boys behind their canopied beds. They painted their nails and flipped through _Witch Weekly_ , admiring hairstyles and the latest robe fashions. 

Hermione didn't get it.

Her mother had always told her that what was on the _inside_ was more important than what was on the outside. Those words had become her mantra, something to ground her when the incessant chattering of her schoolmates grew excessive. Beauty, makeup, boys; they weren't really something she cared about.

Until _him_.

Of course she'd heard the other girls whispering about him in the corridors. How could she not? They 'whispered' so loudly, it was likely _he_ could hear them as well. And of course, Ron was fawning over him as much as the girls did. It was almost comical. 

Hermione, of course, ignored it all. There was homework to do, exams to study for, and _someone_ had to make sure Harry didn't get himself killed during the Tournament. 

She never noticed his interest until the day he'd asked her to the ball. 

Viktor Krum wasn't particularly handsome. In fact, he looked more like an overgrown bird of prey than anything. But he'd asked so politely -- and in all honesty, she'd been too shocked by his invitation to do anything other than nod. 

The first boy to ask her out on a _date_ (a real one, not a study date), and her was a international Quidditch wunderkind. 

Lavender and Parvati could stuff it.

But for the first time, she found herself putting down the heavy textbooks and reaching for (secretly, after the girls were asleep) discarded copies of _Witch Weekly_. By the light of her wand, she read articles on which colors would best accentuate her eyes and skin, tearing out a coupon for Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to redeem on their next Hogsmeade visit. 

And there were butterflies. She hadn't expected those.

It was entirely rational, she knew. She'd read about the laws of attraction, how the body physically reacted in the presence of a pleasing member of the opposite sex. It was just the first time it'd happened to _her_. 

She didn't even mind that he couldn't pronounce her name. And if she'd picked up a book on the linguistics of the Bulgarian language, who was to nay say it? 

Hermione wasn't like the other girls. She didn't normally care about her hair or makeup. Her chipped nails didn't bother her, and she couldn't care less about what season her shoes were. 

And -- judging from the smile that tugged at Viktor's lips when he saw her come down the stairs at the Yule Ball -- neither did he.


	8. Malfoy's Motives (Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Diane](http://goeungurl.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

"You do realize that Pansy is going to kill you for this, right?"

In the mirror, she could see Draco lift one shoulder in a nonplussed shrug. "Pansy Parkinson has been plotting my death in one form or another since we were old enough to waltz at dance lessons. Why should marriage and motherhood change that?" He glanced up from his cuff links, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in a smirk when he met her gaze. "And I do believe, _darling_ , that you meant she is going to kill _us_."

Ginny pursed her lips. "Oh no. This is all your idea."

"Weren't you the one who said it was time we went public with our relationship?" 

Her eyes narrowed in a glare at his smug reflection. Damn him to the seventh layer of Hell and back; she'd thought he was passed out in a thoroughly-shagged stupor when she'd mentioned that. They'd been 'seeing' each other -- if one could define shagging on the nearest flat surface every other day as such -- for the better part of two years. What had started as nothing more than scratching an itch between two divorcees had turned into something... more.

She cared for the git. Merlin only knew what that bespoke about her mental ability.

"Don't twist my words, Draco Lucius Malfoy. When I said that we should go public, I did _not_ mean at a ceremony where my brother, your best friend, and their newly born sprog are the center of attention. You know how much Pansy hates sharing the limelight."

"Technically, she's not the center of attention. Little Nathaniel is. _Your_ godson."

" _Your_ godson," she countered. 

Pulling her attention back to her own reflection, she eyed the sharp green robes critically. "Nathaniel Sebastian Alexander Weasley. What the bloody hell were they thinking, naming the baby something like _Sebastian_?"

Draco rose from his spot on the bed, straightening his sleeves as he crossed the bedroom towards Ginny. "It's a family name," he answered. "If we're going to discuss awful names, I'd take umbrage with shackling the poor chap with a name like Weasley, but I digress."

Ginny might have once been offended by the statement, but it was part of the same song and dance. He'd insult her over something -- family name, hair color, her choice in ex-husbands -- before she'd patronize him with some scathing remark. Words that once had bite were now only said for the sake of speaking them; he'd confessed that he _liked_ her 'garish' red hair, and she'd admitted that his elongated facial features weren't entirely displeasing. 

She smacked away the hands that reached for her waist. "You do digress, you ponce."

Undeterred, Draco wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him in an almost (but not quite) uncomfortable embrace. He let his chin rest atop her head, lips twitching when she reached up to smooth her hair down and 'accidentally' flicked him in the cheek. 

"Mmm, yes, you were saying before I digressed so?"

She snorted and tipped her head back, gently butting him in the chin. "Maybe we should wait until later to do this. Tomorrow is just as good as today."

His hands slid over her belly to her hipbones, long fingers splayed. "Is that famed Gryffindor bravery evaporating? One would think it's _your_ reputation likely to take a hit and not my own."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, stuff it, you overgrown ferret."

"You say the sweetest things to me, woman."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Draco."

"Ginevra."

"Malfoy."

"Weasley."

" _Ugh._ Why do I bother?"

"Because I'm one of the wealthiest bachelors in Britain, two-time recipient of _Witch Weekly_ 's Philanthropist of the Year, and a god in the bedroom?"

"You forgot modest."

Draco smirked. "Modesty's overrated."

Ginny sighed and relaxed against him. It was doubly comforting to her; their harmless banter was just as reassuring as the arms wrapped around her body. There would be backlash when they went public -- likely from their respective families and exes as well as the wizarding public. But when Draco's arms were around her, all of that seemed to fade away.

He'd turned her into a sap. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"You just want to do this today to annoy Pansy," she said, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

"No," he countered, "that's just a perk. As is watching your brother's face do its best impression of a tomato."

"Which brother?"

"All of them."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. Reaching up to cup her chin gently, he turned her face up to his. "But mostly, I want to make a statement. I want to stand up in front of your family and what friends Pansy and I have left to say that you're mine, consequences be damned."

Her brown eyes softened. "They're going to stare," she murmured, gaze flickering to his lips then back to his gray eyes. 

He hummed in agreement and ducked his head down. His breath was warm against her lips as he held there, _just_ out of reach of her kiss. "Let's make it worth their while."


	9. Keen Powers of Observation (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Carrie](http://carrie_leigh.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

Six years ago, if someone had told Pansy Parkinson that the day would come where she would willingly set foot in the Ministry of Magic, she'd have laughed in their face before hexing them. She bore no love for the wizarding government; being used as an example in the demagoguery after the fall of the Dark Lord tended to leave a bad taste in one's mouth. Unable to use the Malfoy family (as Potter's testimony helped keep that family out of it), the Parkinsons -- or what was left of the family -- had been the next best thing.

She'd been paraded before the Wizengamot. Her family's vaults at Gringotts pilfered, their manor in Somerset raided as repatriation for her father's activities as a Death Eater. The year following the war was one she preferred not to think about.

Time had a funny way of changing things -- a _lot_ of things. People changed; a sign of maturity, perhaps. Her life had changed following her family's downfall, forcing Pansy herself to adapt to a new way of life. She'd taken a job with Edward Carmichael, working at his art gallery in Hogsmeade (the only sort of position she'd willingly take, for their was no way in the seven layers of Hell she would work for anyone other than him), moved out of her ancestral home and into a London flat, and let her hair grow out of its former pixie cut.

She'd also started shagging an Auror.

It'd started out as nothing more than a drunken fling. A chance encounter at _The Blind Hag_ , barbed veils giving way to outright insults as the firewhiskey flowed. She'd been drinking alone, he'd come with some of his Ministry mates -- both of whom had scampered off early, as good little Aurors did on work nights. The whiskey had clouded her judgement that night, and she'd found herself admiring the way his robes fit his shoulders, how his once-lanky form wasn't _quite_ as displeasing as she'd previously thought. 

He'd taken her in the loo that night, their inebriation a hinderance to Apparating elsewhere. She'd lost a shoe that night; one of her favorite Louboutins. 

That drunken fling -- a one-off, she'd swore to herself whilst gulping copious amount of hangover-relieving water the next morning; never to be repeated -- had been repeated. Multiple times. Ron Weasley, she'd found, was _very_ good at sex.

It was proof that miracles _did_ happen.

It was just sex, she'd told herself as their drunken rendezvous evolved into multiple sober ones. For the better part of a year, they'd met in secret after work. Her flat, his flat, a room at _The Leaky Cauldron_. The sexual desire that flowed was still as strong as it had been that first night. Oh, they still insulted one another -- it was part of what they did -- but the venom behind said insults had long faded away.

Secret. Behind closed doors. Under night's watchful eye. That was what they did... until now.

Now, Pansy was spread out on his desk; books, quills, and parchment beneath her back as he pushed her skirt up around her hips and pressed into her with one smooth stroke. Her fingertips grasped the edge of the desk, her moans mingling with his grunts and the slap of skin on skin. The door was slightly ajar, and his secretary was due back from her lunch break, but Pansy couldn't bring herself to care. Not as long as he kept doing _that_ , moving inside of her as he did _oh_ so well. 

His lips found her neck, his fingers tweaking a nipple through her dress, and one final cry filled the air as she climaxed and clutched at his back. His own released followed a moment later; one final, shuddering thrust before he slumped against her and pressed his face to her damp chest.

It was silent for a long moment. Pansy could hear the faint sounds of office workers beyond the door, a reminder that they were _not_ in the privacy of her flat. She was here, in broad daylight, letting Ron Weasley shag her against his desk. 

"So," he said, his voice a rumble against her skin, "I take it that means you want to go public, then?"

"Such keen observation skills." Her lips twitched when he glanced up at her, lips twisted in a scowl. "You should be commended on them."

His scowl gave way to a smirk that was purely male satisfaction. "I think the claw marks on my back are commendation enough, don't you think?"

Pansy hummed and shrugged slightly. "I suppose."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't you also suppose we should close the door?" His blue eyes were bright with mirth. "Or should we move this to the Atrium? Just in case you corrupting me in my office wasn't possesive enough for you. It's a bit too public for my tastes, but I do try to satisfy my woman's insatiable lust."

She smacked his arm lightly when he laughed at the expression on her face. "You'll be satisfying your own lust with your hands if you don't put your mouth to better use."

His mouth started to trace a line between her breasts, and Pansy's eyes slid shut in pleasure. 

"Ron, don't suppose you want to take your favorite... AUGH!"

"Ginny!?"


	10. Purgatory (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Kate](http://mugglechump.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

At the very least, Pansy Parkinson was in Purgatory. She couldn't think of a more fitting description. It was _hot_ \-- the normally mild summer days of the Scottish Highlands had been replaced with a climate more suited for the Amazon rain forest -- and the once-loose curls atop her head were now sweaty and stuck to the back of her neck. There were Ministry officials _everywhere_ , laughing and acting as if they'd not a care in the world.

And there were children. Why in Merlin's blessed name was she at this accursed carnival and not _anywhere_ else more pleasant?

The annual Daughters of Merlin charity carnival -- currently known as Purgatory -- was her current source of ire. Pansy was philanthropic by nature, but her preferred method of such was normally limited to giving a large sum of gold. No muss, no fuss, no sweat stains ruining her couture. But _no_ , she had been roped into working a booth at the carnival. Why, she could hardly remember.

A shadow rose in front of her, giving her a momentary relief from the sweltering sunshine. The only thing that would make the shade even more pleasant would be peace, quiet, and a strong gin cocktail.

But then the shadow spoke. Dammit.

"Would it kill you to smile?" it rumbled.

"It might, and I'm too young and beautiful to die," she replied, peering up peevishly at the speaking shadow. The back light of the sun momentarily obscured its features, but she knew the voice all too well. It was the same voice that'd gotten into this mess. "But do stand right there for a moment longer. You can block out the screaming brats running amok."

Ron sighed. "Pans, if you were going to glower the entire time, why did you even agree to come out today?"

"I think your tongue was between my legs when you posed the question. You can hardly blame me for momentarily taking leave of my senses." Ron Weasley, she'd discovered some time ago, had a terribly talented tongue. It was one reason she'd kept him around so long. "A most Slytherin trait, I must add. There's hope for you yet."

Well, that and, for reasons passing understanding, the fact that she'd also fallen in love with the bumbling sod.

Her tall paramour blushed -- despite her squint, she could still see his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red, and hissed, " _Pansy!_ "

" _Ronald_ ," she replied in the same tone, "what?"

"Could you not say... stuff like _that_?" Ron stuttered. "There are children here!"

"Oh, are there?" Pansy glanced at one manicured nail, glancing nonchalantly at her deep red nail lacquer. "Thank you for the reminder. I couldn't hear the screaming sprog from my vantage point, you see."

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a tiny hand tugging at his trousers. "Unca Won, can I has a knut?"

Pansy squinted at the small child pestering her boyfriend. This one was blonde; a marked change from the majority of the Weasley spawn she'd seen running around. At least she could keep track of the blonde ones -- there were only two. 

"Of course, poppet." Ron pulled two small coins out of his pocket and handed them to Dominique. "Are you going to get a sweet?"

The little blonde grinned and shook her head. "Nu huh. We'se a'gonna get a toad and put it in Unca Percy's pockets!"

She sighed. Well, at least this one didn't _look_ like a Weasley. There was nothing to be done about her mentality, though. " _Tel père, tel fils_ ," she muttered under her breath.

Dominique turned her snaggle-toothed smile at Pansy. " _c'est ce que Maman dit_." 

She pursed her lips. She'd forgotten the blonde ones were already bilingual. 

"Alright, little bit, run along and get your toad." Ron patted the little girl on the head. "Have fun."

" _Merci_ , Unca Won!" Taking off at a run, she turned to wave at them as she left. "Buh bye, Auntie Pansy!"

Pansy blinked in surprise, ignoring the snicker emanating from her boyfriend. The finer points of childcare escaped her -- wasn't that what elves were for? To limit the amount of time necessary to spend with children until they were manageable and well behaved. Fifteen or sixteen sounded worth it to Pansy. And she was _not_ anyone's 'auntie.'

Ron just laughed a little louder when she said just that, and leaned down to press a quick kiss to her lips. "Not yet, maybe. But soon enough."

The idea took her by surprise. It wasn't that she hadn't entertained the idea of _marriage_ , but they'd never talked about it. She'd accompanied him to a number of Weasley events, and he'd come with her to several galas and philanthropic events that required an escort. Their relationship had -- thus far -- subsisted on an unspoken agreement to let be, and what would happen would happen.

It surprised her so much that it wasn't until she felt the hot rays of the sun upon her face again that she'd registered he was already gone. She sighed and reached into her Hermès handbag for her sunglasses. At least she only had to endure this torture for another two hours. _The things I do for Ronald Weasley_.

If that wasn't love, she didn't know what was.


	11. A Study in Weasley Chests (Charlie Weasley/Nymphadora Tonks)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [ragdoll](http://ragdoll.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

"Take off your shirt."

Charlie blinked at the girl sitting across from him. He was still flushed with the exhiliration only a Quidditch victory could supply; his blood was running hot, his cheeks flushed, and there was still a heady thread of adrenaline pumping through him. With their victory over Slytherin, they were in prime position to take the Quidditch Cup again. 

He was a simple bloke. He liked Quidditch, and he liked his girl. The firewhiskey he'd smuggled up to the North Tower with them was just icing on the cake. 

His girl. He liked thinking of Tonks as such. It was a recent development, but it was something he'd privately been thinking of for a while. He didn't know what it was -- they'd come back from their summer holiday, but she'd changed. She had a woman's body where she'd previously been all knees and elbows. Sure, she was still tripping over her own feet, but it was just... different.

It wasn't just the fact she'd grown a pair of tits. He'd had his eye on Tonks for at least a year. There was something strangely alluring about her complete lack of awareness. The other girls in their year _tried_. She didn't. She laughed freely instead of giggling, made bawdy jokes where her peers flirted and preened, and eschewed her natural brown curls in favor of a shorty, spiked do; typically in a retina-searing shade of pink.

"What'd you say?"

Tonks crinkled his nose at him and took another swig from her flask. "Your shirt. Take it off."

He quirked his head at her. "Um, why?"

"Awww, come off it, Charlie. Will you just take your shirt off already?"

"Not until you tell me why." He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with what he felt was a serious look. He'd never been one of those Quidditch players to prance around bare-chested after training. He was still a bit self conscious from his early years. While Bill and Percy were tall and lean, Charlie favored the Prewett side of his family and was short and stocky. His body type had led to a bit of a weight problem as a child; something that hadn't really corrected itself until he was almost sixteen.

"Do I have to have a reason for wanting to see my boyfriend shirtless?" 

She had a point.

"Besides." Tonks' voice took on a more playful tone, and her pink hair momentarily darkened to a deep shade of violet. "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

Charlie blinked again. A split second later, after his brain had processed the meaning behind her words, he was ripping his shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. 

Tonks laughed, and the sound made all the blood in his body rush straight to his groin. "Very nice," she said appreciatively. Charlie's eyes watched as she set her flask to the side and crawled over to him. She hitched one leg over his and straddled his lap, letting her arms rest loosely on his shoulders. Her lips found his, and she kissed him softly before whispering, "Much better than your brother."

He slid his hands over to the small of her back, fingertips inching towards her bum. His tongue flicked against hers quickly -- and then her words sunk in, and he pulled back to look at Tonks. A frown creased his forehead. "When did you see my brother without his shirt on? Which one?"

"Percy, of course. I'm dating the Gryffindor Quidditch captain by day and corrupting his fourteen year-old brother by night." She laughed and settled against him, crinkling her nose at him. "Bill liked to 'forget his shirt' after training. Bumped into him once when he was 'bout to head back to the castle."

"Oh."

Tonks sighed and rolled her eyes at the little frown still on his face. Reaching for the hem of her own shirt, she tugged it over her head and let it fall to the side. 

He wasn't lost in thought enough not to _look_. His eyes instinctively dropped to her bra; simple and cotton with full breasts straining against the fabric. He could see her nipples puckered against the minimal padding, hardened by the cool night breeze.

She leaned in and kissed his frown away, pulling back when he started to lean in to the kiss. Her lips curled. 

"You're the only Weasley who gets to see them, though."


	12. A Mutual Arrangement (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Fairy](http://scarletladyy.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

She was _not_ jealous.

Pansy Parkinson was many things. She was a Slytherin to the core; a bitch with a heart of stone who routinely hexed Pygmy Puffs and stole candy from small children for amusement (or so her detractors believed). She was fabulously wealthy, being the last surviving Parkinson. Even after the Ministry had claimed war reparations, her Gringotts vault was still stacked to the ceiling. 

She could be moody, catty, and judgmental -- often at the same time. Her favorite hobbies were drinking wine and judging others. But she was _not_ \-- Merlin forbid -- jealous. 

_Especially_ not of some two-bit trollop from Ipswich who didn't have the sense the gods gave a flobberworm.

But here she was, practically seething at the sight of Rose Zeller -- a girl barely out of Hogwarts, mind -- pressing her breasts against one Ronald Billius Weasley's arm. The little girl was all blonde hair and sunshine, with plump lips and round hips. She looked like some dairy maid fresh from the countryside.

Ron was oblivious to _everything_. He didn't notice the way the little harlot clutched at him, giggling breathily at everything he said. And he _certainly_ hadn't noticed the death glare aimed at his date for the evening.

She sniffed delicately and took a sip of her champagne. Why should she, one of richest and most beautiful witches in England, be jealous of _that_?

The answer was simple. Because Rose 'Trollop' Zeller was her boyfriend's date.

"It's your own fault, you know."

Lips pursed, Pansy gave her supposedly best friend a side-eyed glare. "Do shut your mouth, Draco, before I spell it so for you."

Draco smirked, nonplussed at the threat. As her date for the evening, it was his duty to see to her every whim. Instead, the prat was deliberately poking at her unstable mindset -- for _fun_. His gray eyes glanced towards Ron and Rose, one fair brow rising when the blonde leaned in to closer to hear something her date said -- displaying her ample cleavage prominently. 

"They make such a striking couple, wouldn't you agree?"

"I agree that my foot will be striking your nether regions shortly," declared Pansy heatedly, "if you do not shut your mouth and fetch me another drink."

He 'tsked' at her. " _Another_? What does that make by now, my dearest? Four or five?"

"As touching as your concern is," she replied, leveling heated blue eyes at him, "it's champagne, not Firewhiskey, and it is needed to get through this farce of an evening."

"A farce which, I repeat, is your own fault."

"Oh, shut up."

She didn't want to admit it -- so she wouldn't -- but he was right. Her relationship with Ron was in early days yet, and neither of them were sure how to handle it outside the privacy of their homes. She was not ashamed of him, but it had taken her nearly a year to discern her feelings for Ron Weasley -- feelings that were no longer those of scorn and mutual loathing. She was quite protective of what they had and was not yet ready to subject their fledgling partnership to the outside world.

He'd agreed -- which was why they'd attended the annual British and Irish Quidditch League gala separately. They'd even gone so far as to bring their own dates; a decision which Pansy was sorely regretting at the moment. 

"Fine, don't admit it." Draco shrugged and leaned against the balcony next to her, sweeping his gaze out over the ballroom. "But you know I'm right."

"I have absolutely no idea what Astoria sees in you."

"Sheer animal magnetism," he answered smugly. "I'd ask you what you saw in the Weasel, but I don't feel like losing my dinner just yet."

"Please do us all a favor and throw yourself out the window, darling."

"And deprive all the ladies of the sight of the most handsome man in attendance?" Draco scoffed. "I'm cruel, Pansy, but I'm hardly a sadist. _You're_ the masochist in this arrangement."

Unbidden, her eyes once again sought out the object of her torment -- blue eyes meeting blue when she noticed he was staring up at her. She held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only a few seconds. Pansy hoped Draco didn't notice the slight color that rose to her cheeks, the way her lips tugged upwards in her first smile of the evening. 

And then Ron's attention was pulled back down to Rose, and the moment was broken.

Her impervious expression returned, and Draco sighed. Leaning in, he brushed his lips over her cheek. "Come down and dance with me. Let's make these sots jealous."

She glanced up at him, a smirk twitching her lips. "Why darling, I thought you'd never ask."


	13. Life's Little Memories (Ernie Macmillan/Lisa Turpin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Keeks](http://baby_k21.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

To an outsider, Lisa's dressing table looked like any other. Simple, varnished black cherry with a simple elegant mirror; the lacquered top holding a few of the usual mementos -- a jewelry box, a hairbrush, a few framed photographs, a bottle of perfume. Plain and ordinary in its uniformity.

But to Lisa, it was a treasure trove of memories.

The jewelry box had been a gift from her father for her sixteenth birthday. A Muggle contraption, it would have stopped playing the theme from "Love Story" long ago if she hadn't enchanted it. It was small, but Lisa had never been one to wear accessorize excessively. The pieces she kept inside were all worn with time, but treasured nonetheless.

A string of pearls Ernie had given her after the Pip's birth. The diamond tennis bracelet the children had 'selected' for her fiftieth birthday (with their Da's funds, of course). A silver cloak clasp wrought in the shape of two flamingos -- her Patronus never ceased to amuse her husband. 

Her rings, of course. The antique engagement ring that had belonged to Ernie's grandmother, her diamond wedding band, and the pear-cut sapphire ring he'd given her on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. She'd quit wearing them several years ago, her arthritic fingers swelling so much that it was painful to do so, but it didn't mean they were any less dear to her. 

There was a tiny turtle made of seashells. Mandy'd purchased it at a small tourist trap in Tahiti. She'd thought they were mad, dragging their two best friends out of bed so they could be witness to their elopement. The turtle -- well, to be quite honest, it was bloody ugly -- but it was the first gift they'd received as a married couple.

Thus, a place of honor.

The hairbrush and perfume were unremarkable. Lisa had spent one of her first meager paychecks on a bottle of Jo Malone perfume, and she'd worn the same scent -- English pear and freesia -- ever since. 

But the pictures meant more to her than words could describe. There were only a handful in their bedroom compared to the droves decorating the rest of the Macmillan household. They were her favorites, though, because they represented distinct times in her life.

The first was badly faded with age. It'd been taken at the end of her sixth year, on the train back to London -- none of them knowing it'd be the last time they were all together. Michael was leaning nonchalantly back in the seat, his attention alternating between the camera, Mandy -- who was, yet again, berating Terry for _something_ , and Lisa, her head on his shoulder. Stephen sat across the compartment from them between Anthony and Padma, who had Terry's arm slung round her shoulders. 

Two pictures, side by side in matching frames. The first showed a much, _much_ younger Ernie and Lisa at one of their first official outings as a couple -- the Valentine's gala at White Chapel. Taken a little over a year later, the second showed a grinning Ernie bending Lisa backwards and kissing her on a Tahitian beach moments after the official had declared them man and wife. 

The third photo was (privately) her favorite. She'd arranged for their family to sit for a photographer before Noah left for Hogwarts. The children hadn't been happy about having to sit through two sessions -- for that matter, neither had Ernie -- but her parents couldn't have wizarding photographs lying around the house. 

It was one of the magical ones that she kept in their bedroom. There was approximately three seconds of still smiles and happiness before Pip howled in outrage at Rachael poking him. That stirred Luke on his Da's lap, prompting Noah to reach for his hidden book, and the chaos began again. Holly, throughout it all, kept smiling at the camera.

Five children under the age of ten at the time that photo had been taken. Small wonder she'd gone prematurely gray around the temples. 

The last picture was still changing. It was a project effort between Holly and Rachael; a collage showcasing all the various Macmillan grandchildren. At last count, there were fourteen, but it was always possible more would be added. If that were to happen, the collage would rearrange itself. 

With a contented sigh, Lisa reached for her earrings and fastened them with trembling hands. The face that stared back from the mirror was much changed from the twenty-five year old in the pictures. Her face was lined with age, her blonde hair white and long -- she'd refused to cut it to a more matronly style, nor would she color it. She'd embraced her body's changes. She was well into her silver years, but the memories were as bright as gold.

"You come into _my_ house, on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me to do murder for money."

Wry blue eyes shifted and met her husband's gaze in the mirror. "Your Sicilian accent is terrible," she said, "and how is that you can't remember where you put your glasses, but you can remember the lines to a film my brother showed you forty years ago?"

Ernie pushed off the door frame and crossed the room to her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. "Why should I need to remember where my glasses are? You're excellent at finding them."

"Because if I didn't, you'd be blind as a bat." Lisa smiled indulgently at her husband. The banter was as familiar to her as breathing -- it happened when one had spent well over half a century with the same person. "Besides, it's your granddaughter getting married, not your daughter."

His face wrinkled in distaste. "I thought I made a very convincing argument for a convent." His shoulders slumped, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of Lisa's head. "Guess she's going to go through with it."

"Kenna is too much her mother to be swayed by that argument, and you are too much... well, _you_ , to push it once she starts batting those pretty long eyelashes at you." Lisa laughed softly and reached up to pat his hand. "A right sucker you are for our girls."

He made a 'hmph' sound in his throat. "Bloody headstrong women."

"She gets it from your side of the family."

"And don't I know it." Taking a grasp on his wife's hand, he helped her to her feet. Neither of them stood as tall as they once did, their bodies stooped with age, but that didn't stop Ernie from taking Lisa into his arms and pressing a kiss to her lips. "Shall we watch our eldest grandchild marry that unworthy bastard?"

Lisa smiled and drew back, a twinkle in her eye. "You mean the unworthy bastard who will be the father of your great-grandchildren?"

"Don't be silly, wife. That's what the stork is for."


	14. False Hope (Fred Weasley/Angelina Johnson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Sam](http://fiery_flamingo.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

Normal twenty year olds didn't think about death. They thought about university and going on dates; what sorts of drinks they'd get at the pub later that night, whether or not those cute shoes were going to go on sale anytime soon. 

They didn't shuffle from safe house to safe house, staying one step ahead of the Snatchers. They didn't know the quickest way to cauterize a wound when there weren't Healers available. They didn't constantly worry if their parents were safe in hiding with the parents of other Muggleborn Order members. 

Angelina was bloody sick of it. She wanted _normal_ , dammit. She wanted to shag her boyfriend in a proper bed -- _their_ bed. She wanted to fight with her mum over something stupid again. She wanted to have a pint at the pub and not constantly look over her shoulder for Snatchers. 

By the time the call came for Dumbledore's Army to assemble, she welcomed it. Confidence from surviving several near-death experiences was running strong. Two weeks prior, she and the boys had somehow managed to dodge a blind curse from Scabior’s little gang. Nearly singed her eyebrows off, but Fred had pushed her out of the way just in time. He’d joked it off later, saying how having one more ear than his twin gave him an advantage. He’d _heard_ the curse coming.

She’d yelled at him for risking himself for her. He’d laughed and kissed her quiet. 

Bursting out of the Room of Requirement with Katie and Ali at her side, she’d felt invincible. Adrenaline was running strong, giving the Muggleborn witch an extra boost. She wanted those fucking bigots pay for every last second she’d been afraid for her life.

Angelina Johnson was a strong, confident (borderline cocky) woman. _No one_ made her felt fear and got away with it.

Curses flew, walls crumbled, children screamed. It was pure chaos -- she’d lost track of Fred in the fight; last she’d seen, he and George were heading towards the roof. But back to back with her closest girlfriends, Angelina fought like a tiger cornered. 

Katie took a Slashing Curse to the face and dropped to the ground. With a roar of fury, Angelina went toe-to-toe with the masked fucker while Ali covered Katie’s body protectively. It was a mindless rage, the need to dole out retribution for her fallen friend. She would _not_ lose Katie because some pureblooded bigot with an idiotic sense of zeal was hex-happy. 

She wouldn’t lose _anyone_. It was a child’s hope -- the odds were stacked so high against them. But it kept her going.

A curse hit her opponent in the back, and he crumpled like a rock. Angie flashed her ‘savior’ a quick grin -- but Oliver had already turned away to face another fighter. She turned to help Ali pull Katie to her feet, supporting their semi-conscious friend between them.

When this was all over, she decided in that dusty corridor as she stepped over a fallen Death Eater -- giving his body an extra kick to the face, just for good measure -- they were going to get out there. Travel for a year. Her cousin had taken a gap year to Patagonia, though Angie didn’t really fancy spending time with llamas and wildlife. Maybe they’d go to America -- she’d always wanted to visit New York City. The city that never slept. She wanted to explore the world with Fred at her side.

But first, she was going to snog her boyfriend senseless. Then, she’d take him home and rip all his clothes off. It was the least they both deserved, really, after all this.

The thought put an extra bit of spirit in her step. They were _so fucking close_.

Soon it would be over, and then life could begin again.


	15. Fall From Grace (Charlie Weasley/Narcissa Malfoy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Dallas](http://dallirious.livejournal.com) as part of my [Spring 2013 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/228046.html).

All her life, Narcissa had envied her middle sister. Andromeda was everything a Black woman was supposed to be. She was beautiful, with the heavy-lidded eyes and dark hair that marked their lineage, without the sadistic cruel streak of their elder sister. She was quietly confident in her carriage and being; less brass than Bellatrix, but still infused with a steel backbone.

From the time she'd been old enough to toddle, Narcissa had followed her sisters _everywhere_. They would play tea party and weddings, marrying their dollies off to one another and making grand declarations about their own future marriages. They were Black girls -- still young enough to live in the nursery with their nanny elf, but old enough to hear their mother and aunts whispering about arranging matches. 

They stood side-by-side at Great Aunt Lycoris' funeral and made their quiet vows: that would _not_ happen to them.

And then, her world had shattered. 

Andromeda had run off with that _boy_. The blonde Hufflepuff. The Muggleborn. Despite her pre-standing contract with Antonin Dolohov, her sister had thrown _everything_ away to live as the disinherited bride of Ted Tonks. From that day forth, it was as if her middle sister had never been born. To speak her name was taboo. She was blasted off the family tapestry, legally removed from all Black family matters.

To their family, there had never been an Andromeda Black. There was only Bellatrix and Narcissa -- something that did not change for over twenty-five years. It took that long for Narcissa to finally understand why her sister's actions.

It was the only way she could come to terms with her own circumstances.

Loving Lucius had never been easy. While her marriage had not been entirely arranged as her older sister's had, neither had it been a true love match. It had taken time -- no Death Eater's wife had an easy go of it -- but love had eventually blossomed. It'd taken root by the time she'd been blessed with Draco. 

After the Dark Lord's return and subsequent downfall, though... things had changed. Their family had escaped in one relative piece, but the emotional scars ran deep. Exonerated in public, the Malfoy family was fractured behind closed doors. Lucius turned to the bottle, her son left for travels abroad.

And Narcissa found herself in the arms of another man.

She wasn't a stranger to the idea of an affair. Early in their marriage, she knew Lucius had kept a mistress; one he'd ended things with upon her request. Men and women in their societal positions often engaged in such liaisons -- under the cover of darkness, in secret. They never aired their dirty laundry in the public eye.

She hadn't planned it. She'd never left the Manor one day with the determination to find a younger man, to scratch an itch, to feel young and pretty and _alive_ once more. In fact, she'd acted most disgracefully -- imbibing far too much cheap wine and drunkenly falling into his arms. 

A Weasley's arms. She was sure if Andromeda knew, she'd have laughed until she wept.

One night with a stranger. That was all it should have been -- a pleasant evening's respite from the pain of her life in their new world. She should have opened her eyes to face a crippling hangover, seen the shock of bright ginger hair, and left without ever looking back. 

She hadn't. A redundant statement, but whenever she started to overtly think of _why_ she hadn't left him in that dingy London flat, she felt the urge to lie down with a headache. Five years on, and it still made her mind dizzy to think on.

Instead, she lay down with Charlie.

Draco had run off to Italy with Blaise Zabini in an attempt to outrun the stigmata attached to the Malfoy name. She'd fled to Romania to snatch a moment of joy, however fleeting it was. The little house he inhabited at the dragon reserve was minuscule compared to the Manor, its furnishings threadbare. 

Lying in Charlie's arms, though, she was warm, secure, and didn't give a damn about the decor.

"You know I can't stay tonight," she said softly. "Francesca is returning to Bath tomorrow. Lucius thinks I"m with her."

She shivered as the tips of his fingers traced along her arm. His touch was unlike anything she'd ever felt; blunt, calloused, hands accustomed to hard labor. They fascinated her. She felt him sigh, his breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck when he exhaled. "I know."

His arms tightened slightly. Her gaze flickered to the flash of color. It was somewhat amusing, in a perverse way. She'd always thought she hated tattoos -- they were tacky, cheap. Something indulged in during a moment of weakness. But the glittering scales of the dragon wrapped around Charlie's bicep were quite fetching.

Perhaps she merely hated her husband's tattoo -- and all it stood for.

Blue eyes glanced up to meet his muddy brown gaze. "That doesn't mean I don't want to, though."

"You could stay," he suggested. His lips twitched upwards, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Flip your husband two fingers and shack up with me for the rest of our days. Make our very own little Palace of Love here."

Narcissa nearly snorted in amusement. "You're being ridiculous. You know better than that."

"Who says I do?" He ducked his head and pressed a kiss behind her ear. "Years of working with dragons must've knocked my sense out. That, and I'm in love with a beautiful woman."

It was nothing more than vanity, but Narcissa felt her insides warm at his words. She was nearing fifty, and she was no longer the society debutante she'd been upon her marriage. There were lines creasing her forehead, pulling at the corners of her lips and eyes. The fine skin on her hands was beginning to wrinkle, and the white-blonde of her hair had started to turn gray. She wasn't _old_ , not by wizarding standards, but she no longer turned heads with her looks the way she had years ago.

She gave him a small smile. "So what, you'll return to England with me? Challenge my husband for the right to throw me over your shoulder and bring me back to our so-called Palace of Love?"

Her words were in jest, but his reply was sincere. "If that's what it took," he replied softly. His gaze was serious, belying his words. "To win you for good, I'd do that and more."

Narcissa shook her head. "Don't say that."

"Why not? I love you, and I know you love me."

"I never denied that."

"Then what? Is it the cottage? I can find a bigger house. My freckles? Ginny said there are charms for that. My hair color? I swear to Merlin, Narcissa, I'll dye it if it's that much of an issue --"

She raised one finger to his lips to silence him. "You know it's not any of those things, Charlie. You've always known why."

He was quiet for a beat, then sighed again. "Your husband."

She nodded, this time a bit sadly. "I do love you. But I also love him. Love is more than passion. It's home and family, too."

It was far from a new discussion. They'd had it several times before, and it was likely they'd have it again. For now, it was enough to enjoy the security she felt in his arms -- fleeting as it was, it was enough for the moment. 

Charlie sighed. "I know, love," he whispered. Leaning in, he pressed his lips against hers softly. "I know."

Perhaps she and Andromeda were not as different as she'd thought all those years. She was only sorry it'd taken her so long to realize it.


	16. Baby, It's Cold Outside (Seamus Finnigan/Dominique Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

"I really should be going." Dominique's breath fogged on the window pane, illuminating the howling snowstorm blowing across the plains of Kindaire. 

A warm hand slid over her bare shoulder. "It's so cold outside, lass," the warm, familiar brogue breathed in her ear. "Look at that storm -- inn't fit for man nor beast."

Her lips curled. "I'd be Apparating, Seamus. No need to venture out in that weather."

"Good thing, too. Pretty witch like you'd freeze out there inna instant." His lips pressed against the side of her neck, nibbling the soft skin. His other hand cupped her hip and pulled her back against him, and Dominique couldn't stop the shudder that rippled over her skin.

His hips pressed against the small of her back. She could feel him, hard and aware, firm against her bum. It did _nothing_ to help her self-control. "You know Papa will be pacing the floor," she said faintly. "And Maman will worry."

"Yer a grown lass." The hand tracing circles on her shoulder slid around to her chest, capturing one warm breast against his palm. Slowly, methodically, he rubbed the round flesh; massaging her until she felt her knees go weak, arousal pooling low in her belly once more. His fingers tweaked her stiff nipple. "T'won't be the end of the world iffn ye don't make it home tonight."

"Victoire will be suspicious," Dominique whispered. "It's nearly Christmas. And Louis will be waiting at the door."

"Let him wait." Seamus reached for her unoccupied hand, gently urging it back until her fingers could wrap around his erection. She squeezed, her thumb brushing the head and coming away with a drop of moisture. Her lips curled at his low groan -- again, _nothing_ in helping her self-control.

"Maybe just one more drink..."

His lips curled against her neck, hand tracing over her belly until he dipped his fingers into her waiting sex. Dominique couldn't stop her moan, any more than she could stop her body's reaction to his touch. 

She felt his breath, warm against her earlobe. " _Never_ such a pleasure before."


	17. Ode to a Halloween Waltz (Neville Longbottom/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for the 2012 drabble exchange at HP Halloween on LiveJournal.

“Do you remember our first dance?”

His partner huffed, the exhale blowing a strand of bright red hair from her face. “We’re at a masquerade. Isn’t it polite to at least _pretend_ you don’t know your partner?” Her demi-mask didn’t conceal the lower half of her face; Neville could see the way her lips curled in amusement.

He smiled and brought their joined hands above their heads, leading Ginny through the waltz. “We’re at Parkinson’s Halloween party. If the hostess can’t be polite, what’s the point in the peasant galley doing so?”

“You’ve got a point.” Ginny’s brown eyes found their hostess across the ballroom. Pansy Parkinson-Weasley, her thrice-accursed sister-in-law. “I don’t know what Ron sees in her.”

“Gin, do I have to step on your toes to get you to stop obsessing over your brother’s love life?”

That earned him a light smack on the arm. “Don’t be ungallant, Neville Longbottom. I was _about_ to mention that your dance prowess has greatly improved since fourth year, but I might have to reconsider.”

“Then I shall avoid your fair feet and take your compliments, my lady.” His lips curled, and his grip on her tightened, pulling her closer. “And, if it’s not too much to ask, a kiss.”


	18. Pretty Is... (Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of Humpathon 2012 at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

“Pretty enough for the both of us, hmm?”

Fleur jumped in surprise at the voice behind her. Glancing up, her eyes met Bill’s in the mirror, and her nose crinkled. “Not anymore, I do not theenk. I am ‘ideous.”

Her husband quirked a brow. “Oh?” Stepping closer, he reached out and pulled her against him, his hands skimming over her bare arms. “Why do you say that, love?”

She shivered as his touch pulled gooseflesh from her skin. “Look at me,” she said. Her lips curled downwards in a pretty little pout. “I am so, so... _fat_.”

“What, this?” His hand slipped down to her midsection, covering the small -- barely noticeable, really -- bump that her lacy nightgown covered. “That’s not fat at all.”

“ _Si._ ” Fleur frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She was already gaining weight, and it was early still. There would be nothing but more weight gain for the next five months. By the end of it, she would be as big as a house, and Bill wouldn’t be able to look at her. 

“ _Non_.” Bill pressed his lips to her temple. “It’s not fat, _ma chér_ , that’s our baby. There’s a distinct difference.” His teeth grazed her skin gently, lips twitching when she shivered. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are right now?”

His wife snorted. “You are crazy, Bill.”

Bill smirked. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Slipping one hand down her side, his fingers started to slowly inch her nightgown up, revealing her long legs inch by tantalizing inch. “But you, Fleur Isabelle Delacour Weasley, grow even more stunning by the day.” He held her gaze in the mirror for a long moment, then let his eyes drop lower when he pulled the flimsy material over her hips.

The hand on her stomach moved down to her bare lower belly, hovering just over the thatch of blonde curls between her thighs. “Let me show you,” he whispered, his lips at the corner of her mouth. 

Fleur’s head tilted to the side, turning just enough for her to press her lips against his. “Eef you insist,” she whispered. 

No further encouragement was needed. His hand slipped between her thighs, fingers parting her slick folds and slipping inside her waiting sex. She was ready for him -- she was always ready for him; it was one of the many things he loved about his wife. Bill’s fingers slipped inside her passage with ease, working in and out, around her swollen nub as his hands and lips pleasured his wife.

Her breaths were shallow, his name murmured in low tones as her hips worked against his hand. She grasped at his arm, holding onto him as he played her body the way only he could. When she came, it was with a little gasp and a surge onto her tiptoes as Fleur let her head tip back, letting the pleasure overwhelm her. 

He pressed his lips against her pulse point. “Believe me now, love?”

She chuckled and shook her head slightly. “ _Non_.” Lifting her head, she met his quizzical gaze in the mirror. “But you are welcome to try and convince me again.”


	19. Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye (Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of the 2012 Humpathon at HPHumpDrabbles at LiveJournal.

“We don’t work.”

“We don’t.”

“You’re a pompous, overgrown man-child who doesn’t know how to compromise.”

“And you’re a shrill, overbearing witch with too many freckles, hideously bright hair, and more brothers than should be allowed.”

Heated brown eyes met cool gray ones in the mirror. “Ass.”

“Bitch.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and wrapped her dress tight around her slender frame, tying it in place beneath her breasts. “And you wonder why I’m leaving.” Part of her wished he’d chase after her – the small, childlike portion of her psyche that still believed in fairy tales and true love; knights in shining armor to rescue the fair maiden and slay dragons.

Draco was no knight. But she’d loved him, despite his many flaws, and she knew that he had loved her – or at least, he’d felt affection for her. Despite their years, she didn’t know if he knew how to love. 

That they were still lovers even after their separation was a mystery to most. Ginny intended to keep it that way. Hermione was suspicious, Ron as well – though he’d have had no inkling if not for his wife. 

Her ex-husband was mercifully oblivious.

She moved to find her shoes but was stopped by his sudden presence at her back. “What are you doing?” she asked, though it was quite obvious what he was doing from the way his hands circled her waist. 

“You don’t _have_ to go yet,” he said casually, pulling her against him. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and she shivered. Damn the man to the seven hells for knowing how to play her body like a fiddle. 

“We can’t,” she breathed. “Not anymore. This is goodbye, Draco.”

“Tomorrow.” One hand found the knot holding her dress together and tugged. Without the strain, her dress fell loosely on her body, gaping between her breasts. No bra – she generally didn’t bother when she spent the night. They were either lost or ripped in their haste. 

She knew she should stop him, but her body betrayed her. When his hand slid inside to cup her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple to a peak, she whispered, “Why?”

Draco’s other hand pushed at the dress. It fell to the floor with a soft ‘woosh,’ leaving her naked in front of him – again. “Because,” his lips traced down her neck, the hand on her breast alternating between soft caresses and a firm kneading, “I want to see that hair in my bed one more time. I want to hear you scream my name. I want to make you come one last time, Ginny.” His lips found her pulse point. “Let’s do what we do best.”

His hands, lips, and words pulled a moan from her lips. He would win this round – there was no point denying, just like there was no point in delaying the inevitable. In his bed, they could pretend it was all alright; that they still loved each other the way they once had. In the morning, they’d wake up and all their shared baggage would return. 

Tomorrow. It could wait until tomorrow.


	20. A Sense of Urgency (Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of the 2012 Humpathon at HPHumpDrabbles at LiveJournal.

If someone had told Harry Potter that ten years after vanquishing the Dark Lord, he would be the head of the Auror division, he would have laughed. If that same person had also said that he’d marry and divorce his childhood sweetheart before his twenty-seventh birthday, he’d have asked if their last name was Trewlaney. And if that someone had said he’d be sleeping with his secretary, he’d have had them committed to St. Mungo’s.

Harry wasn’t laughing now.

The office door was cracked, and people could _see_ , but Harry didn’t care. All rational thought had fled from his brain when she sashayed in, wearing that too-tight bandage dress that she knew wasn’t work appropriate -- Percy had remarked on Ministry dress code far too often in her hearing for her to claim otherwise. Pansy knew the effect she had on men. 

In their (meager) defense, she had tried to shut the door. At least, that’s what he thought she was going to do when he grabbed her wrist. It was all a blur of heated kisses and rough touches, of falling to the floor together. Hands pushed and tugged at clothing, moving the pesky barriers aside. 

She gasped when his fingers slid beneath her lacy knickers, finding her sex wet and waiting for him. Two fingers slipped through her heat, twisting and thrusting in a pale imitation of what he really wanted to do to her. It was wrong -- in some way, he was sure of that -- to fuck his secretary at the office; wronger still when his secretary had once tried to sell him over to his arch nemesis. 

But in the lines between right and wrong, they existed in a world of gray.

Her little gasps and moans let him know his efforts were not in vain, and it filled him with a ridiculous amount of male satisfaction to see her fall apart on his hand in less than a minute. Shuddering, his last name on her lips, her grip on his shirt eased, and her hands slid down to make quick work of his trousers. 

“Gods, Pansy,” he ground out when she shifted and sank down onto him, the heat of her sex clenching around him. It was automatic for his hands to find her waist, digging into her hips and the fabric bunched there. 

She circled her hips. “Fuck me, Potter.” The harsh words were paired with an equally sharp kiss -- her teeth found his lower lip, tugging.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Rolling their joined bodies today, they gave themselves over to the desire that rode them both. It was hard and wanton; almost primal in the way her lacquered nails scratched at his back, the strength with which he thrust into her over and over and over again. When his hand reached between them to rub at her swollen nub, she pulled him over the edge with, twin cries muffled in their kiss.

“How long before the first memo arrives, do you think?” he murmured drowsily against her lips. 

Pansy hummed and shifted beneath him, and damn his body if he didn’t stir in reaction. “Hmmm, five minutes?” Her eyes fluttered open, fixing him with a hooded look. “Enough time to close the door and do that again.”


	21. Calm Before the Storm (Rodolphus Lestrange/Bellatrix Black)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of the 2012 Humpathon at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

It is the calm before the storm. An eerie silence hangs over Malfoy Manor, all inhabitants within too on edge to sleep. Their Lord paces restlessly in Lucius’s study, the rest of his closest followers scattered throughout the Wiltshire estate. His _wife_ \-- these days, Bellatrix is his ‘wife’ in name only -- is not with him; a true rarity these past few years.

No, tonight Bellatrix is with _him_. Her too-long nails press into his back, drawing blood beneath his robes. It is a sensation he has missed, drawing blood from one another in the throes of passion. His body is on edge. He has been denied this sensation for far too long -- his matrimonial rights with his wife. Bella hasn’t graced his bed in months, and fool that he is, Rodolphus has not dishonored her by finding pleasure elsewhere.

His hips pin her against the rough stone, and his hands are rough against her simple black dress. The bodice was torn in his haste. Her bra hangs loosely, ripped in half, and her small breasts (still as beautiful as the first time he saw them) bear red angry red marks from his teeth. 

It brings back memories from the first war. Violently fucking his wife the night before a battle -- before Azkaban, before his wife’s tenuous grip on sanity shattered, before her obsession with their Lord drowned all else out. It’s fitting that their first coupling in months is in her sister’s dungeons. The dark, damp cold suits them -- as does the dried bloodstains on the stone.

Rodolphus’s teeth pull at her lip as his grip on her hips tightens. Where they once played mind games with one another, silence reigns. There is no need for words anymore. They are servants to their Lord. Neither one are in control of their own destinies anymore. Their fate will be decided tomorrow. It is as good a reason as any to fuck.

Bella’s body tightens around him, and he knows she is close. Jerking her down on him one final time, he reaches between their bodies to circle her swollen nub, and his teeth sink into the meat of her neck. As if on cue, she moans and shudders around him, and her orgasm pulls his own finish from him. Rodolphus groans and spills his seed inside his wife.

It is quiet for a long moment as their hearts slowly stop pounding. He pulls back to look at her -- beautiful Bella, even now. His eyes darken at the blood on her neck; his teeth broke the skin. The dark red liquid calls to him. _Blood to blood_ , as dark as the vows they once took to one another.

He ducks his head and runs his tongue along the skin, licking the coppery blood from her neck. Merlin help him, he loves this -- he still loves _her_.

He never stopped.


	22. Love A Man in Uniform (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of the 2012 Humpathon at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

If Pansy Parkinson had a weakness, it was for a man in a well-tailored suit.

Technically, Auror robes weren’t considered as suits, per se, but they were tailored. She recognized that some non-Ministry work had been taken. None of the other Aurors took as much care with their robes -- Auror Weasley’s eldest sister-in-law had taken her wand to them. It was lucky there was at least _one_ Weasley who knew a thing about fashion -- even if that Weasley was only such through marriage.

Leaning back against the chaise longue, she let her gaze wander from his broad shoulders and down. He’d filled out quite nicely since school, finally gaining enough muscle to really grow into his gangly height problem. All in all, Ron Weasley was rather fit. 

“Pansy?”

Blue eyes blinked, brought out of her reverie by her name. “Yes, darling?”

Ron pursed his lips. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”

“Of course not.” She hardly even recalled what he’d been prattling on about -- some speech he was preparing for tomorrow’s staff meeting or something trivial. It was of no interest to _her_. The only thing remotely interesting was the way her lover filled out his Auror uniform. 

“Then stop staring at me like I’m -- oh. _Oh_.” She quirked an eyebrow at him, lips curling suggestively. The blush that stained his cheeks was endearing; he was twenty-six years old and still blushed like a fourth year at his first Yule Ball whenever certain subjects arose. He took a step closer. “Pans...”

She crooked a finger at him and reached out, grasping him by the hand. “Fleur did a remarkable job with your robes,” she commented lightly. “They were practically unwearable. I must send her my compliments.”

“Oh, so it’s my _robes_ that you’re staring at.” He laced their fingers together and smirked -- a habit he’d developed in their years together. She was a bad influence. “Good to know.”

“Well, I’d be _hard_ pressed to say it was _just_ your robes.” She shifted, letting one stocking-clad foot travel up the inside of his leg. Higher and higher it traveled until she brushed over the bulge in his trousers. Her eyes flashed wickedly up to his face. “It looks as if that’s not that only thing that’s hard...”

He made a strangled noise in his throat as she brushed her toes over him, back and forth, teasing. “ _Gods_.” Ron swallowed, his stance widening in an unconscious movement. He leaned over and brought their joined hands to Pansy’s breast. She let out a small mewl of pleasure. 

“I think,” she murmured, her foot leaving off it’s task to hook around his knee and draw him down to the chaise longue with her, “you’re going to be late to your meeting.”

Taking a firm grip on her hip, Ron shifted and moved above her, caging her body beneath his. Slipping his hand beneath her dress to palm her bare skin, his lips hovered just shy of a kiss.

“What meeting?”


	23. Mad As A Hatter (Seamus Finnigan/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of Humpathon 2012 at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Seamus was mad as a hatter. There was no way around it -- any other man would have long since left Pansy Parkinson in the past. She was stunning, no doubt; while she’d never lost her slightly upturned nose, the rest of her body had changed from that of a pixie-cut schoolgirl to a _Playwizard_ pin-up girl. The jet black hair that had once framed her face was now worn in soft waves around her shoulders, curls tumbling down her back.

And across his pillow.

There was no filter between her brain and her mouth -- if she had a thought, she voiced it. Company be damned. Another man might have taken steps to avoid awkward scenarios, but Seamus... well, he’d always played with fire. And truth be told, hearing Pansy’s scathing remarks on some of their former classmates always did liven up a party.

She was pureblooded, with an old family name and the old money that went with it. He was an Irish halfblood, the son of a Cork witch and a Muggle brewer. What they’d lacked in money, they made up for with love and laughter. She was an only child -- he was the middle child in a brood of five. 

Seamus preferred stout. Pansy loathed the drink. His idea of a fun night was at the pub with his best mates, drinking and betting on sport. She preferred a more genteel outing; trips to the spa with Astoria, a night at the theatre. 

His girl was bold -- privately as brave as any Gryffindor he knew (not that he could _ever_ tell her so; he liked sex too much to jeopardize his place in her bed). She’d seduced him -- not that he’d minded. He likened her to the toke he’d hit with Dean during sixth year: dark and sweet, a dangerous thing to be addicted to.

And he _was_ addicted. Was it more or less dangerous to be addicted to a person rather than a thing? On the nights they weren’t together, he dreamed of her. Watching her face when he slipped his fingers in her wet sex, hearing her moan when he bent her over the sofa and took her from behind. The smooth pale skin waiting for him beneath her (always matching) silk lingerie, pink tipped breasts just waiting for his lips to suckle. 

His Medusa. His deliverance and his undoing, all wrapped up in one Slytherin enigma. His friends said he was addle minded, crazy to stay with her.

Seamus just shrugged and smiled. They called it addiction, he called it love.


	24. A Thousand Years (Severus Snape/Lily Evans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of Humpathon 2012 at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

_The Three Broomsticks_ is not the sort of place Severus would normally patronize. It’s too busy, too full of people who might inquire about his business. _The Hog’s Head_ is more his style, but Aberforth will give him dour looks. At least Rosmerta lets him drink for free -- sometimes -- and she doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t have to. 

The free whiskey helps.

It’s been years, but he can still see her as clearly as if it were yesterday. Twenty-one was too young to die, and she’d been a wife and mother by that point. Lily had lived a life of purpose -- with _him_. Severus would always hate James Potter. He was everything Severus was not. And more importantly, he got the girl.

James Potter had been there when Severus pushed Lily away, the desperate act of a desperate teen searching for belonging. 

What he wouldn’t give to do it all over again.

Lily could have been _his_. What did he care about blood purity? He was a poor halfblood himself; he had no room to condemn such a bright, wonderful witch for something out of her control -- such as her parents. But he was weak, a coward -- and he’d thrown away the one constant in his life -- the only woman he had ever, or could ever, love -- for one madman’s depraved ideals.

He dreams of it, sometimes. When he is drunk and alone -- which happens often -- he dreams of Lily. He can still see her smile, her flaming red hair, her green eyes. He remembers the touch of her hand, always a friendly gesture from her that meant _so much more_ to Severus. He is not inexperienced with women -- Rosmerta tends to him whenever the need for contact arises -- but it is not the same.

Rosmerta, with her blonde curls and buxom curves, is not Lily. But when he closes his eyes, he imagines her. He imagines that it’s Lily’s breasts his calloused hands caress, Lily’s lips that wrap around his aching member, Lily’s body beneath his, calling his name in pleasure. 

(She knows, of course. The barkeep knows everything. But she keeps his secret). 

Her son will be at school soon. Severus is torn at the thought. Part of him looks forward to seeing this child of Lily’s, the baby he has not seen since... that night. But the other part of him already hates the boy -- Harry Potter. Harry Potter who is half Lily, but he is also half James. And if he is anything like his father...

So Severus drinks Rosmerta’s free whiskey. He terrorizes his students and ignores his heart -- still broken even after ten years. He has loved Lily for as long as he has known her, and he will love her until he takes his final breath.


	25. A Little Bit of History Repeating (Scorpius Malfoy/Lily Luna Potter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of Humpathon 2012 at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Edmund Burke once wrote, “Those that do not know history are doomed to repeat it.”

To which Scorpius Malfoy and Lily Luna Potter replied, “Well played, Mr. Burke. Well played.”

It wasn’t as if either of them _knew_ – but if they had, would they have stayed away? From their first introduction during Lily Luna’s fifth year, there had been an unmistakable force that pulled them together. Scorpius could joke and call it his animal magnetism all he liked, but there was more to it – it was darker, deeper, _possessive_. 

And it felt much older than the barely of-age witch and her wizard.

(Even then, Scorpius wasn’t ‘hers.’ Not really. He was Rosie’s, and he always had been.)

Lily Luna knew it was wrong. She shouldn’t want him as much as she did. But every time she tried to walk away, to leave him to her saintlike cousin and make a new start for herself, she found herself right back at where she started: in his arms. Those stolen moments with Scorpius – from their first time together in the field behind the Burrow to yesterday’s tryst above _The Leaky Cauldron_ – were like a drug. She was an addict.

She lived for those brief, fleeting hits. It was hard to be with him; blending into the background when a girl came from the combined Weasley-Potter family was next to impossible. But they found time, each time Lily telling herself that it was the last time. 

She’d always been a terrible liar.

Scorpius’s kiss made her knees weak. The way he ran his hands over her bare skin made her shiver, her lips curling in pleasure. When he pressed his mouth to the cradle of thighs and licked _right_ on that spot, she shrieked and writhed beneath him. He made her feel wanton, alive unlike anything she’d ever felt before. He played her body with such precision that she momentarily forgot all the reasons this was _so, so wrong_.

If her family knew, they’d despise her. Ostracize her. 

She didn’t want to even _think_ what Rosie would do.

The pair knew the history between their families all too well. Scorpius had been to their home enough times to know that his father and Lily’s had never been the best of friends – and that was putting it mildly. It didn’t keep them apart (after all, if the knowledge that she fucked her cousin’s boyfriend on a regular basis didn’t do it, why would ancient history?).

What Scorpius and Lily didn’t know, though, was that they were hardly the first to feel that pull.  
If they’d known that once upon a time, Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley had succumbed to the same desires time and time again, would they have repeated the sins of their parents? If Lily knew that her boyfriend’s father used to make her mother scream in pleasure, would she have stayed away _then_?

Neither knew. Neither _would_ know – Draco and Ginny guarded their secret well. And their children did the same with their own.


	26. The Quidditch Calendar Affair (Viktor Krum/Fleur Delacour)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of Humpathon 2012 at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Viktor hadn’t _wanted_ to do the _Witch Weekly_ photoshoot. He didn’t like interviews, photoshoots, or anything else that required him to speak or be seen in public. However, he’d learned one thing when his professional Quidditch career began -- and that was that his agent had the last word. Not him. 

So here he was, bare chested and slicked down with oil. Or at least, that’s where he _had_ been.

Now? Now he was in the broom cupboard, buried to the hilt in Fleur Delacour. 

He hadn’t seen the former Beauxbatons champion in years, not since her wedding. They’d kept in touch through letters, so he knew about her life and she knew about his. She knew the way he loathed the spotlight, that playing professional Quidditch was a double-edged sword -- he got to play the game he loved. In exchange, his entire life was lived in the public eye.

And he knew about her struggles after the war, her miscarriage. And her subsequent divorce.

What he hadn’t known about was her budding career as an editorial photographer. _That_ was new -- quite welcome, since she was in charge of this farce.

It didn’t matter at the moment. Nothing mattered except the enticing floral scent lingering in her hair, the way she gasped and clutched at him when his hips pressed against hers. They hadn’t bothered to disrobe. Her hands had pushed his belt and trousers down around his knees, and his calloused fingers had pushed her silk knickers to the side before he was inside her slick sex.

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” she moaned, tipping her head back in pleasure -- exposing her smooth neck to his wandering lips. “ _Veektor..._ ”

He kissed and bit at her pulse while one hand palmed her round breast through her dress. “I haf missed you, Fleur.” His hips rolled against hers, the pleasure building. Her legs were wrapped tight around him, and the way he pressed her against the wall gave his other hand leave to find her center. One finger found her swollen nub and rubbed it teasingly, smirking when she gasped. “Vill you scream?”

“ _Oui, oui_ , ‘arder...” Her body stilled, and then Fleur cried his name when she climaxed.

Viktor grit his teeth, but the fluttering of her body was too much to resist, and he came with a groan, her name breathed against her neck as an afterthought. 

One delicate hand slid through his hair. “Veektor --”

Whatever she’d been about to say was immediately cut off when the cupboard door flew open. “Miss Delacour, have you seen -- OH!”

With a growl, Viktor reached out and grabbed the doorknob. The flustered assistant at least had the good sense to jump out of the way before he slammed it shut, blocking the gawking staff from seeing anymore than they had in that split second. 

Fleur chuckled. “You ‘ave always ‘ad a way weeth women, Veektor.”

His agent. That was who he would blame for this debacle -- tomorrow. When it was in _The Daily Prophet’s_ gossip column. This was all his agent’s fault.

But for now, he just smiled and pressed a kiss to Fleur’s lips. They’d get through this forced photoshoot, and then he would take this lovely witch to dinner -- and to a proper bed


	27. Fade Into You (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

They were as different as night and day, two lovers circling one another in an endless orbit of fire and ice. Where Ron was fire and passion, Pansy was cool and haughty. The gossips had a field day with the two of them. Ron, war hero and best friend to Harry Potter, and Pansy, daughter of Death Eaters and noted pureblood supremacist; complete opposites from an objective point of view. 

But passion was never objective. It didn't take backgrounds or Houses into accord. Desire was a cruel mistress, bending all to her will -- no matter how they fought her grasp.

In the cool of night, their bodies entwined and arms encircled so close it was hard to tell where he ended and she began. They traded kisses and touches, hands sliding over shadows cast by the flickering candles. She was in his heart, in his head, in his arms, in his bed. When he breathed out, she breathed in. The world faded out as they faded into one another, giving themselves over to the pleasure that flowed when hips thrust, when lips brushed over skin to deliver the sweetest torture. 

Even after the candles extinguished in a thin trail of smoke and melted wax, their lovers' dance continued under the light of the moon. Wet, open kisses and ragged breaths -- _"yes, harder, don't stop"_ \-- passed between them. It was never enough. As hard as they fought in the light of day, it only made the want stronger; the need to touch and be touched was palpable.

Ron fought hard. Pansy fought harder. But in the end, they both won.


	28. And To All, A Good Night! (Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

_Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house..._

Draco Malfoy was _not_ in a good mood as he Apparated into the foyer of his flat. It was tradition that he spend Christmas Eve with his parents at the Manor, which he’d never minded. Even though he was in his late-twenties, his mother still doted on him as much as she ever had. 

No, his foul mood could be attributed towards his girlfriend. Or rather, her employers. Who just _happened_ to be her brothers. Who gave a rat’s arse if Christmas Eve was the second busiest day at Weasleys’ Wizards Wheezes (just after the day before term started at Hogwarts)? It was Christmas bloody Eve, and his girlfriend was supposed to be with him at dinner.

_...not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse_

He’d argued, of course -- but in his defense, he’d thought he’d been quite diplomatic. He’d only referred to her youngest brother as a ‘flame-haired tosser’ twice; nearly a record for him. Perhaps they would let her leave early? She could still make it in time for dessert and coffee. 

But _no_ , not his noble girlfriend. George _had_ to be home early for Roxanne’s first Christmas Eve -- never mind that the baby was only three months old and wouldn’t even _remember_ the damned night. There was no arguing with Ginny when she her mind was set.

It was both endearing and infuriating.

_The stockings were hung by the chimney with care..._

And to make matters worse, she’d decided to spend the night at the Burrow. _We have to be there early for Christmas breakfast, Draco_ , she’d said. _You can just join me in the morning._ Bloody woman. Why was she being so difficult? Was the idea of Christmas Eve sex _really_ beyond the realm of possibility?

He’d even bought special Christmas knickers for her. Green with a white fur trim. The shopgirl had tried to insist upon the red, but he’d stood firm. Red clashed horribly with that Weasley hair of hers. 

That Weasley hair he just wanted to see spread out over his pillow.

_...with hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there_

He let out a frustrated groan and opened the door to his bedroom...

And stopped dead in his tracks. For there on the bed was the most perfect present he could have imagined. Ginny -- his beautiful, annoying girlfriend -- spread out on the sheets with nothing but a strategically placed bow hiding her sex from view. (And really, if his gaze went to her naked breasts first, who could blame him?).

She smiled that _come hither_ smile of hers and murmured, “So tell me, Mr. Malfoy. Have you been naughty or nice this year?”

“Naughty,” he said firmly. “Definitely naughty.”

“Oh good.” Ginny reached one hand towards him and crooked her finger. “Only naughty boys get to unwrap their present early.”

_Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!_


	29. The Best Laid Plans (Viktor Krum/Hermione Granger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Hermione Granger was a good girl. She was the top of her class at Hogwarts -- calling her the brightest witch of her age was not hyperbole. She excelled at every academic subject she put her mind to (Divination notwithstanding, because that was just _rubbish_ ). 

She’d made perfect marks on all her examinations, was the top candidate for every job she’d ever applied for, and there was nary a black mark on her official record. She was a war hero, best friend to Harry Potter, and a champion for Muggleborn equality in a still-prejudiced wizarding love.

Hermione Granger was also borderline obsessive compulsive, driven by the need to be correct _all_ the time, and fastidious in every detail of her life. Her days were planned a week in advance, outfits laid out the night before, and she took notes upon notes at whatever meetings she attended. Her attention to detail was, really, quite frightening. 

_Everything_ was planned. Married to Ron by twenty-five, head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures by thirty-five. She wanted two children, a cat (or a dog. Perhaps both), and a house in the countryside. Maybe one day, she’d even translate _The Tales of Beetle the Bard_ from their original runes. Just for fun.

Too bad life never took her planning into consideration.

She _thought_ she’d moved on past Viktor Krum. But the first time she laid eyes on him since the end of the war -- at the Ministry’s annual Remembrance Ball, two years after the Final battle -- she’d remembered just what had fascinated her about him so. Hermione had never been one for clichés, but all the things she’d felt when their eyes met had been straight from a silly romantic comedy.

There was nothing silly about the way he’d kissed her that night, though. He’d pressed her up against the back corridor wall, his hips pinned tightly against hers while his hands slid up and down her sides. She _ached_ ; there was no better word for it. When he pressed one thigh between her slim pair, one bold hand sliding up to cup her breast, the universe shifted -- and all those carefully laid plans were shattered.

And for once in her overplanned, good girl life, she just didn’t give a damn.


	30. Not Quite A Mid-Life Crisis (Scorpius Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Ginny lay back against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed, hooded gaze resting fondly on her lover. She hadn't felt this way in years; languorous sensual, the heady thrill of arousal intertwined with passion. It'd never been this way with any of her other paramour. Not with Dean, not with Seamus, and certainly not with Harry. 

Making love with Harry had been good. It was pleasurable, satisfactory, and regular -- three nights a week and Sunday mornings.

But Harry had never made her feel the way he did. He'd never looked at her like she was a goddess, a woman to be worshiped Merlin help her, but it was her Achilles' heel. _He_ was her weakness. 

She knew if they were found out, she'd be reviled -- a Jezebel, the scarlet woman her mother had once accused Hermione of being. A "cougar," for lack of a better word, seducing one of her son's closest friends. 

Ginny Weasley didn't give a flying _fuck_ what anyone else thought.

She smiled when Scorpius's lips found the soft skin of her stomach, never as taut as it'd been before the birth of her children. The delicate rose petals trailing along her side brought gooseflesh in its wake. "Someone's feeling romantic tonight," she commented softly.

"It's Valentine's Day," he drawled casually. One long, thin finger slid over the valley between her breasts, his lips following the path. "Well, yesterday was."

He passed his tongue over one rosy pink nipple, a smirk tugging at his lips as it sprang to awareness at his touch. "Knew a box of chocolates wasn't quite appropriate."

"And what, seduction and a dozen roses is?"

"For us?" He lifted his head and found her gaze. His free hand, the one previously tracing along her rounded hip, slipped between her legs and found the wetness waiting there. "I'd say so."

Her clever retort died on her lips. He reduced her to throaty moans and breathy sighs, her hips rising to his touch. Scorpius was young, but he knew seduction. He knew the difference between fucking, sex, and lovemaking; he knew what the occasion called for. 

He'd also not yet learned the beauty in denial, in making your lover _plead_ for your touch. He would, in time, but not tonight. Sliding over her, he fit his hips against hers and slid into her waiting body. 

Ginny arched, breasts brushing his hairless chest, and moaned. Call her a harlot, a whore, a jezebel, she didn't give a damn. 

_This_ was perfect.


	31. Stolen (Remus Lupin/Narcissa Malfoy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

She'd never wanted to hurt him. Truly. Narcissa Black -- soon to be Narcissa _Malfoy_ \-- has never been a cruel woman. Unlike her sister, she'd never found joy in causing pain; quite the opposite. Narcissa was softness where Bellatrix was focused and sadistic, where Andromeda had been fiery and determined.

(It still hurts to think of her sister as someone who _had been_. Andromeda is dead to the Black family. She is dead to Narcissa.)

Stolen moments with Remus were the single pure moment in her life. Lying with him in a dingy flat somewhere outside of Manchester, savoring the brief time they'd -- _she'd_ \-- allowed them. Whispered promises to be broken, soft touches and kisses as they bared skin to moonlight and surrendered to one another.

Surrender. She loves that about him. Lucius never _surrenders_ to what she wants. Remus would give her the moon if she asked it. He has already given her his heart; a gift she _never_ wanted but cherishes nonetheless. 

She can't think of it. There is a darkness coming that will swallow them all. They both ignore it when they can, but they're not ignorant to it. The lines have been drawn, and at the end of the day, they're on opposite sides. 

But she treasures this night. It will be their last time together, she knows, and she will have to hurt him -- and the thoughts breaks her heart. Tears pool in her eyes despite her lover's gentle touch. There is an earnest look in his grey eyes; earnest yet touched with a weariness that seems out of place in his youthful face. She lets him kiss her, caress her breasts and belly. His fingers between her legs make her tremble, and when he moves inside of her, she comes with a gasp and a shudder. 

She loves Remus. He loves her -- _Naricssa_ , not the delicate flower of the Black family. He doesn't love her money or her family (and really, he loves her _despite_ all that). He loves her for _her_ , and that is worth more than gold. 

But she is married to Lucius. She is a Malfoy, and she has a duty. And in that duty, she says the two cruelest words she can imagine.

"I'm pregnant."


	32. A Certain Type of Man (Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Charlie Weasley was _not_ one of those "metrosexual" type blokes. He was a man who liked his ale stout, his steak cooked rare, and his women curvy and willing. He liked a bit of rough and tumble; after all, ten years on a dragon reserve in Romania wasn't for the weak at heart.

All in all, Charlie was not the sort of man one could mistake for anything but red blooded, grade-A masculinity. 

_Hands gripped at her firm thighs, pulling her up against him so those long legs he loved could wrap around his waist. Pushing her back against the wall, he growled when she gasped in want -- it would leave marks. Good. The idea of marks on her body from this encounter filled him with a dark sense of satisfaction._

_Her hands ripped at his shirt, yanking it over his head. "Off, Weasley."_

_"Whatever you say, poppet."_

Yet... even the most brawny of men did things for their woman. They did things like transfer from Romania to the preserve in Wales -- which was far too close to Molly Weasley for his taste. They did home improvement projects; painted walls, hung pictures, and caulked windows in their girlfriend's ramshackle Kenmare cottage.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Not by far.

_"Eager tonight, aren't we, Spinnet?" His lips curled against hers in a smug smirk. It wasn't an easy thing to be shagging a female professional Quidditch player -- something about the inequality of the sport made them more likely to be ball busters -- but he thought he handled it well enough. It was too easy to fan the flame, though._

_"Oh, bugger off," she growled. Her nails gripped his back, making marks of her own._

_Charlie snickered as his hands pushed her leather trousers down around her thighs, exposing her sex to his touch. "Would rather it was you, love."_

No, the worst part was the _other_ side of shagging a Quidditch player. The part no one talked about. 

It was compounded, he supposed, by the fact that Alicia was the only female on the Kestrals' roster. Why couldn't she have followed Angelina to Holyhead? At least there would have been other blokes to commiserate with. But _no_ , of course not. He had to suffer on his own.

He was, for lack of a better title, a WAG. A Pitch Bitch. And as such, he had been instantly initiated into that sacred -- and, save for him, _completely female_ \-- group. That meant baby showers and afternoon tea with the other significant others. It meant matching jumpers and admiring the next generation of Kenmare Kestrals.

Was it worth it?

_"Good gods, if you don't fuck me right now Charlie Weasley, I swear I'll --" Alicia's diatribe fell silent, replaced by a long, keening moan as Charlie sank into her waiting sex._

_He took a firm grip on her hip, setting a punishing rhythm as his lips found hers._

It was _more_ than worth it.


	33. The Fruit of Knowledge (Cormac McLaggen/Lily Luna Potter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [Elle](http://elle_blessing.livejournal.com) as part of HPHumpDrabbles' [Humpfest 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/128728.html).

As personal assistant to the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Lily Luna Potter knew things. For example, she knew that Rachael Wood was pregnant and taking a leave of absence for the rest of Holyhead's season two weeks before the news broke in the _Evening Prophet_. She knew which country had been selected to host the next Quidditch World Cup (Brazil) before the official announcement. And she knew when she'd be receiving a raise well before her annual review.

She knew which secretaries would expedite reports and which ones wouldn't. She knew the quickest way to get from her boss's office to her own, and she knew exactly where he hid his private stash of Glenlivet single malt. 

She also knew it was a bad, _bad_ idea to fuck her boss.

_Lily loved the feel of silk beneath her skin. They didn't often make it to his bed -- always his, never hers -- but she luxuriated in it when they did. He was an infuriating bastard, but the man had excellent taste in sheets. Dark green silk framed her white skin as she lounged about on the bed, naked as the day she'd been born._

_And he was still fully clothed. Bastard._

_It was part of the game they played, the game they loved. They were always playing it, even at the office. She supposed she should say a prayer of thanks that no one had noticed it yet, the way they tugged at the power dynamic between them. At the office, he had the upper hand._

_In the bedroom, though? That was where the real battle was fought._

It wasn't something she'd _planned_ , of course. Though really, how ridiculous was that statement? It sounded just like something Rosie would ask -- " _No, Rosie, I didn't plan on fucking Cormac McLaggen, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, all around arsehat, and former suitor of your Mum's. Happy now?"_ Lily Luna was _not_ a gold digging harlot, thank you very much.

(Well, she wasn't a gold digger at the very least).

But describing what drew her to Cormac was like trying to answer the Sphinx's riddle -- damned frustrating, and it usually left her with a headache. He was a three-time divorcee; an arrogant demanding ass that had coming -- sometimes literally -- at his beck and call. 

There were plenty of men her own age she could date. Merlin only knew Lysander Scamander had dropped enough hints, and her cousin Elodie had plenty of attractive friends from Beauxbatons she was willing to offer up as potential dates. Lily had tried; really, she had. 

She just couldn't help it. 

_A silk tie --_ his _silk tie -- tied snuggly over her eyes, Lily felt the bed dip beneath his weight as he joined her atop those silk sheets. She couldn't see (he tied a skillful knot), but she could feel him behind her, feel the heat of his body as he slid closer._

_And then the slightest touch. His fingertips, gentle and soft as a feather, tracing between her shoulder blades He was teasing her; robbing her of her sight forced her to rely on her other senses, and her skin prickled into awareness as he traced his way down her naked back._

_Her freckles. He was_ obsessed _with them, for some ungodly reason._

_She wasn't complaining. The light touches were nearly more arousing that a heavy hand. Cormac was a seasoned lover. He knew how to bring a woman to climax in many, many ways. He knew how to take his time, to fan the flames until she was writhing beneath him._

It had started like most bad decision do -- too much alcohol. Too much alcohol at the Ministry's annual holiday party, to be exact. Lily Luna had never been able to hold her vodka as well as her cousins, yet she continued to drink it. It had not been one of her more shining moments.

It was cliched, but it'd started like all those trashy romance novels her Mum kept hidden in the kitchen cupboards. Heated gazes across a crowded room, a bit of small talk, and before she knew it, her knickers were on the floor of his office and her legs were wrapped around his waist. 

Gods, what would her friends think? What would her _parents_ think? She knew better, they'd raised her better, she had to request a transfer as soon _right this instant_. 

_When his lips replaced his fingers on her skin, she sighed in contentment. His hands slid down to her hips, holding her in place as he moved over her body. One hand cupped a pale buttock, and Lily's breath caught in anticipation._

_But no, he didn't touch her where she was aching to be touched. Bastard._

_His tongue traced the same patterns between her freckles as his fingers had previously. It was a different kind of tease; her skin was warmth where he touched her but cooled as soon as his tongue slid lower, dancing over the small of her back. She felt the gentle press of his teeth at the curve of her arse._

_It was the only warning he gave her before she felt his tongue slip between her legs._

She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But that didn't stop Lily from keeping her hands dangerously close to the flame. She wasn't some silly girl, harboring notions of love or -- Merlin forbid -- becoming the fourth Mrs. Cormac McLaggen. He wasn't a 'forever' type of bloke. Lily was a smart girl -- she knew he wasn't her forever.

It was one of the many things she knew. She knew how he took his coffee and when he needed a dollop of whiskey instead of cream (very helpful prior to meetings with her Uncle Percy). She knew how much he liked her matching green lingerie sets, and she knew the best sort of ways to let him know when she _wasn't_ wearing knickers.

Lily knew it was a bad idea to fuck her boss. The problem was, she didn't care.


	34. Taste Me (Drink My Soul) (Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [darkrosefanfics](http://darkrosefanfics.livejournal.com) as part of ' [Humpfest 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/128728.html). Title comes from the song [Make Me Wanna Die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dYeGw-bo430) by The Pretty Reckless.

_"I wouldn't touch a filthy blood traitor like her whatever she looked like."_

Famous last words.

Of course, Ginny Weasley wasn't a blood traitor -- at least not to the side that won. To the victor goes the spoils, the chance to write history that generations would look back upon. It fell to the Order and their supporters to paint their triumph in a flattering light, to show all Slytherins, purebloods, and their ilk as the source of all their world's misfortune. No matter _what_ , there was someone to point fingers at.

Blaise had seen Pansy hauled to Azkaban in handcuffs after a sham of a trial. He'd seen the Greengrass girls forced to work at Madame Malkin's after their family's fortune was requisitioned by the Ministry. Theo's father had killed himself rather than be judged by the Order. He'd left his wife and four children behind to deal with the fallout.

The Malfoys had only escaped because of Narcissa. 

Watching this new world unfold around him infuriated Blaise. He had never been a man of action; a trait he supposed he'd inherited from his late father ( _requiescat in pace_ ). But he did have the chance to do _something_. A strike to the heart of the enemy -- quite literally.

It meant sacrificing a bit of the high ground. Ginny Weasley -- soon to be Ginny Potter -- was a stunning woman, but she was still a _Weasley_. Dirt poor, freckles, content to mingle with blood traitors and Mudbloods alike. Blaise would have to _Scourgify_ his entire body afterward.

But other than that...

Ginny Weasley fucked like an animal.

Honestly, he hadn't really had to _try_ and seduce her. She'd practically melted into his arms after their first encounter at _Incubus Dreams_ ; a Diagon nightclub that catered the the young, the rich, the beautiful (in her case, two out of three wasn't terrible). With a skirt that barely covered her round arse, exposing long lengths of leg toned from years of Quidditch -- quite possibly from manual labor as well, but Blaise didn't care to think on such mundane thing -- and the deep vee of her top exposing the sides of her rounded breasts, she was some the picture of some dirty, debauched daydream. Straight from the front cover of _Playwizard_.

"Hate you, Zabini," she breathed into his ear when he curled his hand beneath her thigh, hitching it up over his hip.

"Likewise, Weasley." His lips slanted over hers as fingers slid over silky fabric, fisting to bring her closer to them. The music from the dance floor was still loud, pulsing, running as quick as his blood was at the thrill of the forbidden. Someone could stumble upon them, someone could _see_ Blaise ruining Ginny Weasley's lacy knickers when he jerked them from her body. 

Grudgingly, he had to admit that had circumstances been... _different_ (if Pygmy Puffs had wings)... then he might have been amenable to trying to make this a normal sort of thing. And so would Ginny, if the way she ripped buttons from his shirt and fumbled for his belt buckle was any indication. His trousers and pants were pushed down his legs, stopping midway around his thighs. Pale hands slid against his torso, burning him where she touched. Her lacqured nails ran a line across his nipple, and her smirk was triumphant when it pulled an angry hiss from his lips.

And then her smirk was gone when his hand slipped between her legs, cupping her sex. He curled two fingers deep in her tight passage, rubbing the pads over that spot deep inside her that made her legs tremble. She tipped her head back, long red hair brushing the small of her back as she worked her hips against his hand, trying to relieve some of the pressure that built. 

"How do you want it, Weasley?" His voice was a rumble against her skin, his breath hot when he pressed his lips to the shell of her hear. "Hard and fast or soft and slow? Or do you want me to fuck you with my fingers, to bury my face between your thighs and lick you until you scream my name?" He pressed his thumb to her swollen nub, and she gasped. "Tell me, or I'll stop."

"Don't," she panted, biting back a whimper, "you _dare_."

He pulled her earlobe between his teeth, nipping sharply. "Then tell me."

Ginny growled with frustration. Her little nails dug into his biceps, and one hand grasped his chin and forced him back to look her in the eye; deep, chocolate brown eyes glazed with fire, with _want_. "Hard," she hissed, punctuating the word with a hard, quick kiss. "Fast. And fuck it all, Zabini, _now_."

A predatory smirk curled his lips. Before she could react, his hands were on her hips, slamming her down on his straining length. Twin guttural moans filled the air before he started to move inside of her, setting a punishing rhythm as he fucked her into the wall.

Her eyes closed in pleasure, she never even noticed the camera flash.

♥ ♥ ♥

Two days later, Blaise shuttered his London flat and registered it with an estate agent. He bought a villa in Italy, near his mother, and started a new life -- one free from any suspicion associated with being pureblooded, Slytherin, or a known manwhore.

The much-anticipated wedding between Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter, the wizarding world's beloved savior, never happened. 

The pictures made the front page of the _Diagon Tattler_.

Blaise's work in England was done.


	35. Dances with Ferrets (Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [Becca](http://shy_of_reality.livejournal.com) as part of ' [Humpfest 2013](http://hp-humpdrabbles.livejournal.com/128728.html).

"Weasel."

"Ferret."

"Dance with me."

"I'd sooner kiss a chimera than dance with you."

"As always, your sweet words move me. I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"Really, Ginevra. It's the least you could do."

"Don't call me Ginevra. And why should I dance with you?"

"I am here, of my own volition -"

"Lies. Pansy would have cut off your bollocks if you'd missed her wedding."

"Of my own volition, where I have willingly allowed myself to be surrounded by a large number of questionable characters, all of whom have ghastly red hair. I have watched without protest as my best friend of nearly thirty years has allowed herself to be shackled to one of said red headed specimens for the rest of her life, _and_ I have played nice with your excuse of an ex-boyfriend."

"Define nice."

"He's still breathing, isn't he?"

"That isn't saying a whole hell of a lot, Malfoy."

"Face it, Weasley. You are in my debt."

"I'm still failing to see your angle. This isn't _my_ wedding."

"No, this is a tasteful, elegant affair thanks to the bride's influence. Clearly, this isn't a House of Weasley production."

"Gods, don't remind me."

"What, that this isn't your wedding, or that your sister in law is now Pansy Morgana Parkinson-Weasley?"

"That. Ugh. What a cow."

"Is that any way to speak about family, little Weasel?"

"Of course it is. After all, my blunder headed brother was the one who lost his senses and married the bint."

"No one ever accused him of an excess of intelligence, this is true."

"Oy, you shut your mouth. That's my brother you're talking about."

"Excuse me, but you started this whole 'my brother is an idiot' dialogue. I was merely agreeing."

"Yeah, well, don't."

"So, you're allowed to badmouth the Great Weasel, but I'm not allowed to chime in?"

"Spoken like an only child."

"Well, my parents could hardly top perfection."

"Good _gods_ , stop talking."

"Dance with me, and I'll stop."

"...Promise?"

"On my honor as a Malfoy."

"There's an oxymoronic statement if I've ever heard one."

"Weasel."

"Ferret."

"Has anyone told you you're a real piece of work?"

"Many, many times -- _ow!_ Malfoy, are you trying to jerk my arm out of its socket?"

"Dance, Weasley. Hand on my shoulder, there's a good girl now."

"I never agreed to a dance."

"So stomp away in a huff. I daresay no one will question why."

"Probably not."

"..."

"..."

"You've been avoiding me."

"That's ridiculous."

"Hardly a denial."

"Malfoy, why would I need to avoid you? Last I checked, I've never enjoyed the pleasure -- or lack thereof -- of your company."

"Liar."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Beg all you like. I might enjoy it."

"Which is why I won't be doing _that_. What are you on about, Malfoy?"

"Don't play daft, Weasley. It might suit your cadre of brothers, but it's not your best look."

"Malfoy..."

"You enjoyed the pleasure of my company last week. _Quite_ a lot, if I recall correctly -- and I'm sure I do, as there are still nail tracks running down my back from your... _pleasure_."

" _Malfoy!_ "

"There's no need to hiss like that, you're not a snake."

"Someone is going to _hear_ you."

"Hardly, Weasley, you're an inch away from me. And unlike you, my vocal magnitude doesn't start at 'ear shattering.' Not that I'm complaining, you see -- a bloke never complains when he hears a woman moan his name when she orgasms."

"Oh _gods_ , will you shut it?"

"See, I don't think I will. You might have avoided my bodily presence, but don't think I haven't noticed you undressing me with your eyes during the ceremony."

"I did _no_ such thing!"

"I'm afraid you did, little weasel. It was quite disconcerting -- and effective. Lucky for you, I've know exactly where the most luxurious broom cupboards in the manor are. Or I'm sure we could make use of a spare bedroom. Pansy would hardly mind."

"We are not having sex again, Malfoy."

"Well, not yet, of course. We haven't finished the song yet."

"Not now, not ever. It was a one-night sort of deal."

"A one-night sort of deal that happened four times, perhaps."

"I was drunk."

"I will admit, you were a tiny bit intoxicated that first time. But the ones after that were all you and your sober judgement."

"Doesn't matter. I hated it."

"Yes, my ears are still ringing with how much you 'hated' it."

" _Shut up, Malfoy_."

"Clever retort, Weasley."

"I mean it. I didn't like it one bit."

"Oh, you mean you didn't like it when I did this...?"

"... _Mmmmm_. Oh gods, you have to stop."

"Do I?"

"Someone will see."

"Will they?"

"...No, you really have to... _oh_."

"We can fix that, you know?"

"...what?"

"There's are several empty rooms upstairs. They're cutting the cake soon, no one will notice if we're missing."

"..."

"..."

"Face it, Weasley. You want my body. I can hardly blame you, really. You're only appeasing that basic female instinct to go after the most handsome of wizards. Handsome, wealthy, an expert in the bedroom..."

"You, Malfoy, are full of yourself."

"I think _you_ want to be full of me."

"... fine. Just keep your hands to yourself until we're out of sight."

"I accept your challenge in knowledge that my hands will be all over your naked body within minutes."

"Who says I'm getting naked?"

"I do. Your dress is... not the most unfortunate thing I've seen you wear, but it will look much better on the floor."

"Malfoy, you sure know how to charm the knickers off a woman."

"Yes, yes I do."


	36. Play Secretary (I'm The Boss Tonight) (Percy Weasley/Gabrielle Delacour)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

It was a scene straight out of any man's dirtiest daydream. Gabrielle Delacour -- she of the kilometer-long legs, wavy blonde hair, and bright blue eyes -- parading around his office in an outfit that could only be described as "secretary stripper." He didn't know of _any_ Ministry secretaries who wore clothes like that; too tight skirt, white blouse open low to expose the swell of her cleavage, topped off with stiletto Louboutins.

For that, he counted his blessings (or at least, he thought he did). He did have to get _some_ work done, after all.

But when the object of his affections sashayed into his office looking like _that_ , it was only rational to do what any man would do in his position: move _her_ into position.

And what a position _that_ was. With her skirt flipped up to expose her arse, Percy was able to appropriately appreciate the smooth, curved skin; her barely-there black knickers framed by twin garter belts. His long fingers traced her backside gently, teasing her (teasing them both). 

"So, mademoiselle," he said conversationally, his tone betraying none of the extreme emotions running through his body; _wantneedtake_ making a jumble of his mind, "you have been a very naughty woman."

Gabrielle turned her head to the side and flashed a seductive smile at him over her shoulder. It was a smile he'd seen many times before, the kind of smile that said she knew _exactly_ what he was thinking, what he wanted to do to her. The smile that said she was thinking the same thing -- and maybe something else just as _enjoyable_. Maybe it was because she was part Veela, or perhaps because she was French. Hell, maybe it was just because she was female and therefore knew _things_. 

Things such as how to get her way.

"I 'ave?" she asked. "You like eet."

He did like it. He liked it more than was right and proper, which was why it'd taken him so long to just give in to those base urges running through him whenever he saw Gabrielle; the urges that told him to throw propriety to the wind and take her against the nearest flat surface.

"Do you know what happens to bad girls in this office?"

She canted her hips slightly, wiggling her nearly-bare arse at him in enticement. "They are punished, I am 'oping."

Percy didn't reply, but his hand came down and landed on said proferred arse with a loud _smack_ , punctuated by a soft gasp from Gabrielle. He watched in satisfaction as the skin immediately began to darken to pink. "And for how long?" His hand came down again, earning another cry. 

"Long," she gasped in tandem with another smack, "and _'ard._ "

Three more times, his hand came down. He would have liked to have prolonged their play, but there were other needs to see to. Sliding his hand between her legs, he could feel the dampness soaking her knickers; another sign she was close. With a satisfied smirk curling at his lips, he slipped one finger beneath the wet fabric and pressed it against her swollen nub.

Gabrielle came immediately.


	37. Beyond the Bottom of the Bottle (Seamus Finnigan/Padma Patil)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

It was wrong. Seamus knew it was wrong. He knew that in the morning, he'd wake up, look in the mirror, and hate the reflection he saw there. He knew that there was a special level of Hell for what he was doing; he considered the crippling hangovers as fitting punishment for his actions.

But the alcohol didn't help. He'd found his way to the bottom of so many bottles of whiskey, he'd begun to lose track. They were piled high by the recycling bin, those empty testaments to the fortitude of his liver. His flat was in shambles after he'd ripped away everything that reminded him of _her_ : throw pillows burnt to a crisp, the colorful cotton sheets she'd preferred torn to shreds. 

There were empty spots on the wall where he'd yanked down the paintings she'd hung, and the kitchen was a mess of broken, colorful crockery. Her incense and candles were tossed out with the rubbish. 

It was a sloppy attempt to erase every reminder of Parvati Patil from his life.

He would never been free of her, though. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face; he heard her laugh, he saw her lithe body stretched out in _their_ bed -- he saw the body that was not his own cover hers. He heard her gasp of pleasure when Zacharias Smith filled her.

He tried to find solace in his work. He searched for salvation in the bottle. And in a fit of desperation and loneliness, he tried to lose himself in the arms of another woman.

Perhaps Seamus could blame it on the whiskey -- it clouded his judgement. But forgetting one woman was difficult enough without his other lover sharing her face.

Padma was the polar opposite of Parvati; analytical where her twin was disorganized and flighty, grounded in science while Parvati's head was in the clouds. But she was there, and she was just as drunk as he, and it was all too easy to pretend for one night that his world hadn't been turned on its head. Because despite it all, Seamus was still in love with Parvati.

Damn her. Damn _him_ to the depths of Hell for being so masochistic. 

She looked like her twin, though. It was all that mattered to his whiskey-clouded mind. Her breasts looked and felt the same when he suckled at them, her body was just as hot as her sister's when he pushed her skirt up around her hips and slid his fingers into her knickers. She came the same way Parvati did; nails digging into his back as her hips jerked in response, moaning in pleasure.

He knew it was wrong. The sun would rise and shine the light on his perverted attempt to mend his broken heart, and Seamus would hate himself once more.

He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.


	38. If These Walls Could Talk (Neville Longbottom/Millicent Bulstrode)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

The Hogsmeade High Street was eerily deserted. It was hardly surprising, given that it was half past three in the morning and raining buckets to boot. The bars were closed, the students tucked away in their beds as rainwater washed over the centuries-old cobblestone street.

If anyone _had_ been awake to look out their window, they would have been surprised to see two figures pressed together in the alley next to the _Hog's Head_. If they hadn't immediately closed the curtains, they might have even recognized one of them: Neville Longbottom, resident Herbology professor and war hero.

They wouldn't have recognized the woman. Why would they? Millicent Bulstrode was fairly unremarkable, as far as women went. Apart from being slightly larger than most women, she was normal -- the sort of face one might see in an instant and forget in the next.

But not to Neville.

There was no one to hear the ragged desperation in his voice when he pressed his lips to her ear, whispering words of desire and promise. There was no one to see the way Millicent clung to him, her arms wrapped tight around him as she fought against her own nature. When it was like this, the two of them, she could let her walls down -- but it was _so hard_.

None of the good citizens of Hogsmeade were witness to their frantic coupling, half hidden in the shadows. Only Millicent saw the way Neville's hands cupped her heavy breasts before he ducked his head and pressed his lips to the round curve. It was for her benefit and hers alone that he let one hand slip beneath her skirt and find her waiting sex. There was no one to hear her moan of pleasure when he pressed two fingers into her wet heat.

And with the way the rain poured down around them, there was no one to see or hear their frantic coupling. It wasn't the most romantic of spots, and there was a decent chance one or both of them would have a head cold in the coming days, but it was enough to Millicent. When the sun rose, there would be no visible sign of their time together.

Good thing, too, if only for the town residents. If walls could talk... they would be _scandalized_.


	39. Respectable Gentlemen (Percy Weasley/Padma Patil)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Percy Weasley was _not_ the sort of man one might refer to as a 'Lothario.' He wasn't averse to women, of course, but neither was he the type with a new fling a week. He preferred any sort of liaisons to lie with the confines of a steady, mature relationship.

Discounting that one time in Amsterdam, of course. That was a different matter entirely, never to be spoken of again. 

He was a respectable gentleman. And respectable gentlemen did _not_ succumb to temptation and shag a coworker in the Minstry lifts.

Lying -- regrettably alone -- in his bed, Percy tried to block the mental images out. It wasn't the sort of thing to be repeated, _ever_. But when he closed his eyes, he could still see her flushed cheeks; he could smell her perfume (lilacs) on his skin, hear her pant in his ear. 

Blood rushed to his groin as the scene played out in his memories once more.

_His hands buried in his hair, any reply he might have made to her was lost when she pressed her lips against his. For a moment, he was too stunned to react -- and then his body overrode his brain. He slid his hands around her slim waist, pulling her flush against him._

_"Miss Patil," he whispered against her lips, "I'm not entirely certain this is proper."_

_"Mr. Weasley." Padma broke the kiss to look him in the eye. He was unable to resist glancing at her plump lips, his mind imagining what they'd feel like other places beside his lips. "I'm not entirely certain I care."_

Looking back, there was a part of him that knew he should have stopped her. Even if he were the sort of man to do... that sort of thing, the Ministry lifts were _hardly_ the place for it.

But he had to admit, the knowledge that at any moment, those doors could have slid open and exposed them to the outside world, it was a goad to his pleasure. 

Percy had long admired Padma Patil. She was wickedly intelligent and beautiful to boot, and he'd have to have been blind to not notice the way her pencil skirts clung to her shapely behind. Before she'd accosted him in the lifts, he'd even been thinking of asking her to tea. 

Bugger tea. 

Perhaps he'd owl her for a drink. Now.


	40. Three's A Party (Roxanne Weasley/OMC/OFC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Roxanne surveyed the lavishly decorated room through hooded eyes, a half-empty glass of champagne held loosely in her hand. The party -- as Patricia Summerby would be _sure_ to mention over tea tomorrow -- was already a smashing success. Barely an hour in, and already inhibitions were lowered substantially. Though considering the bar for moral standards was set about ankle level, that wasn't saying much.

It wasn't the sort of place she was known to frequent. Then again, between both the unspoken rules and the signed confidentiality contracts, none of the attendees were known participants in such activities. She'd heard about it from Dominique, who had heard about it from Victoire. It was all the rage in Paris -- sex parties. Perfect for the single girl looking for a night of fun.

Rose would have referred to it as an 'orgy.' Her little cousin had always been a bit of a prude. And while Roxanne was by no means the easiest girl around (that was more Lily Luna's territory), she enjoyed sex. It was hardly a crime against humanity.

She didn't attend the parties often, but they were a good outlet for her energy. With her job as a Ministry barrister, it left little time for things like having a real social life -- and the idea of a steady partner was out of the question. 

Her gaze flickered to her cousin, recognizable despite the domino mask atop her nose and disheveled lingerie. The blonde perched atop another woman's lap, her hand caressing a pink nipple as her partner's hand moved inside Dom's knickers. 

Roxanne's lips curled. It never took her half-Veela cousin long to find willing partners -- women _and_ men.

She felt a hand trail across her shoulder. Flickering her eyes upward, the curl of her lips turned feline in pleasure at the handsome man standing behind her chaise longue. She didn't know his name (which was the point; she _technically_ wasn't supposed to know Dominique's name), but she'd seen him before. Very tall, very handsome, always in a well-tailored suit and black half-mask with devil's horns. 

It'd be a lie to say she hadn't dreamed about peeling that suit from his body. She'd thought about it; oh, had she. When she touched herself at night, it was his hands she imagined touching her. 

The redhead at his side was interesting -- and beautiful. She smiled seductively and gave a little finger wave. 

Roxanne returned the smile. She knew the picture she presented; creamy skin the color of cafe au lait, framed in blue silk to match her blue eyes. "Hello there, handsome."

Her potential partner smiled, a brief flash of brilliantly white teeth. "Good evening. My partner," he glanced at the redhead, who nodded coquettishly, "and I were wondering if you might join us upstairs?"

"I could think of nothing I'd like better." She finished her champagne in one long sip and rose, placing her hand in his outstretched one. "Lead the way."


	41. The Wrong Person (Cedric Diggory/Penelope Clearwater)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

For her entire life, Penelope Clearwater had always done what was expected of her. She'd made top marks, been named prefect and eventually Head Girl. She'd taken a job at barrister position at the Ministry before moving on to a private firm, and had made a name for herself as an expert in international law. 

She'd dated some since Percy. They had all been safe, clean cut, men. Oliver Wood, Roger Davies -- tall blokes with bright smiles and nice haircuts. The kind of man any parent would hope their daughter would bring home. Cedric was that type, too. It'd thrilled her father when he'd asked for his permission to marry Penelope.

Cedric was kind. Cedric was sweet. Cedric was handsome.

Cedric was _boring_.

It wasn't his fault. Merlin only knew, Penelope had tried so, so hard. But life with Cedric was...routine. Predictable in its monotony. And it wasn't what she wanted.

She wanted passion. Fire. An all-consuming romance that would sweep her off her feet and leave her aching with want. 

She'd had that, once, and she'd swore that she was finished with that type of man. The kind who smirked but didn't smile, whose every word was half-veiled in secrecy. The sort of man whose touch made her knees turn to water and made her blood run hot, who could coax wantonness from the most buttoned-up of barristers. 

He was the man she thought of when Cedric touched her. With her fiancé's hands on her skin, Penelope had to close her eyes and imagine it was _his_ hand sliding between her thighs, _his_ lips closed round a pink nipple. 

Glancing over her shoulder, she watched him -- asleep now, his face peaceful in the darkness of their bedroom. He was, all in all, _everything_ she should have wanted in a husband. He didn't keep secrets or deal in things of questionable repute. Cedric Diggory was as open and honest as a book. 

And she couldn't marry him. 

Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she slipped out from beneath the covers and crossed the room to the dresser. Penelope wasn't a Gryffindor. She wasn't brave, someone who took risks on love. All her life, she'd done what was expected -- what was safe. Cedric was safe.

She was bloody sick of safe.

She slid the antique diamond off her left hand and set it down on the polished mahogany. 

"Forgive me."


	42. By Candlelight (Marcus Flint/Katie Bell)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Candlelight suits him. She's never told him that, nor is she likely to tell him, but it does. Marcus has never been the most handsome of men; his face is too blunt, his shoulders slightly hunched, and he never got around to fixing his teeth. Candlelight softens his features and casts dancing shadows over his naked skin.

Candlelight can't mask the look in his eyes, though. The one that thrills her, makes her toes curl when he looks at her that way. It's a look that says, _"I don't know how, but I'm damned lucky to see you naked every single night."_ Katie holds that look close to her heart.

Candlelight masks the discomfort she knows he feels when she slides his shirt off. The scars on his back are white with age, the skin puckered from the lash of his father's discipline. He used to flinch when she touched them -- and sometimes he still does -- but she kisses that look off his face and draws him down onto the soft mattress with her.

Candlelight doesn't judge them. His parents supported the Dark Lord, and hers harbored fleeing Muggleborns from the Snatchers. They're an odd pair; Merlin only knows Rita Skeeter can't write enough about them. In the quiet of their bedroom, none of that matters. All that matters is Marcus and Katie, tender kisses and whispered promises. Skin on skin, his hips moving against hers as they find pleasure in each other. 

It's by candlelight that their souls are laid bare.


	43. Roxanne's Recipes (Dean Thomas/Roxanne Weasley)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Of all the Weasley grandchildren, Roxanne had the most talent in the kitchen -- took after her Grandmum Weasley that way (because Merlin knew, neither of her parents could boil water, let alone an egg). She found the measured structure of baking soothing; measuring, pouring, rolling out dough. The sweetness of a freshly baked biscuit, the cold butter cut into the dry ingredients.

Cathartic.

Especially when done with Dean Thomas.

Granted, when Dean was in the kitchen, she was more likely to wear nothing but an apron. There would be flour on her bum from where he'd hoist her onto the countertop and press between her legs. The ginger scones would wind up burnt to a crisp because the sound of her orgasm would drown out the oven timer. Her apron would fall to the floor, and there would be butter in her hair -- and really, she should protest because her family didn't know the meaning of 'boundaries' and could walk in at any minute.

But when his tongue was between her legs, the idea of baking -- or intruding Weasleys -- was the farthest thing from her mind.


	44. Bound (Blaise Zabini/Hermione Granger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for this weeks posting at hp_humpdrabbles on LiveJournal & crossposted to lastfanstanding at Dreamwidth.

"Mmmmm, look who's come off her ivory tower now?" The cool voice slid over her skin like ice. Hermione didn't trust that tone -- didn't trust the _man_ eyeing her naked body the way a snake eyed a bird (fitting, given his House). To him, she was prey. Another women to succumb to his charm, to use and discard when he'd found his pleasure. "Hermione Granger, bound to the bed and _aching_ for my touch."

She jerked her chin defiantly, refusing to simply _simper_ and beg like he so clearly wanted. (In retrospect, perhaps allowing him to tie him to the bed wasn't her _best_ idea). "Lust is a logical human emotion," she replied, her voice remarkably even. "I can hardly be faulted for it."

"Faulted? No. Congratulated, I think. You've proven excellent taste in men." He moved with an elegant grace, the flickering light casting shadows on his dark skin. Skin she'd run her tongue over times before, skin she would taste again before the night was over. "Once you got past that little hangup with Weasley, of course."

Blaise slid a knee onto the bed, and somehow, he made the act of crawling look elegant. Ducking his head down, he flicked a nipple with his tongue, repeating the act when it caused her to inadvertently gasp. 

"For your, _oh_ , information," she inhaled as his hand trailed teasingly down her stomach, "I was in love with him. An entirely different vehicle than lust."

His finger slipped between her thighs. "I wouldn't say that too loudly," he said, smirking against her skin. One finger teased the swollen bundle of nerves, exerting _just_ enough pressure to make her hips jerk in response. "It doesn't paint you in the best light."

"Zabini?"

He replaced his finger with his thumb, freeing his other fingers to dip inside her waiting sex. "Yes, love?"

Hermione keened -- _damn_ him. "Shut up and kiss me."

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, and he shook his head. "Kiss? That's an awful tame term for our little arrangement here." Curling his fingers, he slid further down the bed, letting his lips trail across her lower belly.

Dark eyes flashed up at her as he settled between her thighs. "I think I'll hear you scream first."


	45. The Trouble with Daughters (Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was only one thing for it. He was going to have to build that tower he'd been planning for his daughters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for mollywheezy as part of my [Summer 2014 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/261539.html). She asked for Bill's reaction to catching one of his children snogging. Given the release of [Rita Skeeter's recent dispatches from the Quidditch World Cup](http://accioslothsplease.tumblr.com/post/91144758720/jk-rowlings-new-update-about-harry-ron) on Pottermore, I decided to play a bit fast and loose with the prompt.

The rustling of newspaper was the only sound coming from the living room as Bill turned the page. It'd been a long trip home from Brazil, and he was tired. It happened more often just before and after the full moon; while there hadn't been very many side effects from Greyback's attack, he did feel the pull of the moon more keenly than most. 

The World Cup had been fun, but he was glad to be home again. He still enjoyed the excitement of his profession, but now, he felt the absence of comfort and familiarity much more keenly now than he once had. He wasn't old by any means -- almost forty-five -- but he was in a different phase of his life. Husband to a beautiful, intelligent wife, father to three wonderful children, and perfectly content with his lot in life. Thank you very much.

Ginny had sent him the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in his hands. It was a week old, but she'd sent the owl with a little note Spello-taped to the front. _Page Six_ , it'd read in his sister's loopy handwriting, a little smiley face next to it. Flipping it open, Bill rolled his eyes at the byline. Rita Skeeter -- of course. 

Still, he could use a good laugh. Skeeter's columns were always good for a chuckle or two before he let Fleur use them as kindling. His eyes moved over the print, lips twitching at some of the more entertaining bits -- Rita Skeeter's opining on the source of Harry's scars was amusing. How disappointed she'd be to know he got that trimming the rogue rose bushes in his back garden. 

His small smile grew when the column turned to his own life. "So, a love potion. _That's_ how she does it," he murmured to himself, thinking of his wife. A love potion was hardly necessary; he'd been mad for her since the first time he'd seen her, and the years hadn't diminished his feelings. Let Rita Skeeter call his wife empty-headed. Fleur was worth a hundred thousand of that old hag. She'd hex her to pieces without breaking a sweat. 

_One always hesitates to invade the privacy of young people..._ "Since when has _that_ ever stopped you, you ridiculous cow?" Rita Skeeter didn't hesitate; she dove right in with unbridled enthusiasm. _Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Bill Weasley might like to know their beautiful blonde daughter Victoire..._ His eyes widened. 

"VICTOIRE!"

Half a moment later, and the summoned daughter appeared, poking her blonde head into the room. "You bellowed, Papa?"

Bill raised a brow and waved her inside, watching her grin and skip into the room. At fourteen years old, his eldest child was teetering on the edge of womanhood. She was lovely; a perfect mixture of both parents. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her white-blonde hair was pulled back in an elaborate style of braids. Her mother's work, no doubt. A very pretty girl who would be a beauty like her mother. 

There was only one thing for it. He was going to have to build that tower he'd been planning for his daughters. 

Without preamble, he held up the paper. "Care to explain this to me, young lady? Why is Rita bloody Skeeter -- oh don't crinkle your nose at my language; I know you've heard stronger than that -- writing about you and Teddy Lupin sneaking off and _snogging_ at the World Cup?"

She laughed. _Laughed_. "Oh Papa," she said, perching on the arm of his easy chair, "do you really believe any of that drivel?"

"When it comes to my little girl, there is no such thing as 'drivel.'" He reached up and tapped her nose with the tip of his finger. "You're far too young to be snogging a boy, _especially_ one as old as Teddy."

Victoire grinned and snapped her teeth at his finger playfully. "Papa, Teddy is sixteen. He's only two years older than I am."

"You forget, Vic, _I_ was a sixteen year old boy once. I know how they think."

His daughter raised a blonde brow at him in perfect imitation of her mother. "You do? Want to tell me how they think?"

"I'd rather read a thousand Rita Skeeter columns than help you decipher the inner-workings of an adolescent male." Teenage boys were simple. They liked sports and girls. That was about it. His daughter was beautiful, intelligent, wickedly funny, and _far too young_ to date. "I'm waiting for you to tell me it's all rubbish. That you weren't snogging and have never snogged a boy, and that you're looking forward to joining a convent after school."

Laughing, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his scarred cheek. "It's rubbish, all of it. Especially the part about joining the convent. Don't worry about Teddy and me, Papa." With a cheerful hop, she grabbed the paper from his hands and chucked it in the bin, and then she was skipping back out of the room with a wave.

"Teddy _and_ me?" The empty room mocked him, as did the feminine laughter coming from behind him. Bill's lips thinned, then curled upwards. He didn't have to look behind him to know who had joined him. "She is _your_ daughter, wife."

"Oh? I am glad we 'ave cleaned that up, _chérie_. I know you 'ave 'ad much confusion, since she acts nothing like a Weasley." Bill glanced up as his wife came around the chair and settled in his lap, wrapping slender arms around his neck. He leaned in and nuzzled her neck fondly, inhaling the light floral scent of her perfume and drawing a hum of pleasure from her lips. "She ees fourteen, Bill, and 'aving 'er first... _comment dit-on?_... crush on a boy. Give 'er space. She will grow out of eet."

"Do you promise?" His arms banded around her waist as he tipped his head up, pressing a kiss to the soft spot beneath her ear. 

Fleur hummed and reached up, running her hand through the red hair -- just starting to go silver at his temples. " _Non_ ," she breathed, "but eef you forbid 'er to see 'im, she will just sneak around be'ind your back. _Croyez-moi._ "

Bill sighed. " _Fine_." He could be the fun dad. The cool dad. He wouldn't lose his cool over his daughter supposedly snogging a teenage boy (who, he had to admit, was a decent bloke -- for a sixteen year-old male full of sixteen year-old male hormones).

And if all else failed, he could still build that tower.


	46. World Cup Fever (Marcus Flint/Katie Bell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus and Katie celebrate the Quidditch World Cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal using [this photo](https://38.media.tumblr.com/bb4f88edf0fc2bdc8dbaa50658029ea9/tumblr_n8aestvMWM1rum7cgo1_500.jpg) as the main prompt. I wrote this drabble in the same universe as [_The Ink Under My Skin_](http://venividiscribi.livejournal.com/74315.html), though this particular piece is set after the events of that story. You don't need to read it to enjoy the drabble, though.

The foyer better resembled a closet victimized by an Erumpent horn. Clothes were scattered everywhere; two delicate high heeled shoes, one tipped over, rested on the bottom step. A man's crisp, white button down shirt half hid a basic red sheath dress mid-way up the stairs. A lacy bra was draped haphazardly over the newel post. 

Parts of two outfits, a man and a woman's. A scene of passion, punctuated by the two people gasping at the top of the stairs. 

"Merlin," Katie breathed on an exhale, running her fingers through Marcus's long, dark locks as he pressed his face between her breasts, "Who'd have thought the World Cup would make you _that_ randy?"

Her lover chuckled, the action sending vibrations across her skin. "Bell, I'm shagging one of three starting Chasers for England's squad. You know how fucking sexy that is?" Leaning back, his arms banded around her waist and drew her back so she was half-lying on top of him. His trousers were still around his ankles, Katie's knickers wedged around her knees. What sort of man would have been able to make it to the bedroom when such a bounty was his to partake in?

His vixen smiled and wiggled against him, making herself comfortable. "Mmmm, it's lucky Lucy was at her friend's house. We might have scarred her for life."

Marcus smirked. His hand slipped between them to cup a rounded breast, his fingertips needing the flesh languidly. "You're probably right." Ignoring her rebuttal -- _"I'm always right"_ \-- he pinched her nipple lightly, and his smirk grew at her little gasp. "Might traumatize her to see her sporting idol riding her big brother like a broomstick."

Katie's eyes narrowed in challenge, and her lips twitched. She shifted against him and pressed her thigh between his legs, humming in pleasure at the feeling of him growing firm beneath her once more. "Like a broomstick, huh?"

He grunted in affirmation, closing his eyes when her leg was replaced by her hot little hand. Fingers wrapped around him, moving up and down with sure strokes -- she knew how to make him ache with _want_ , the need to fuck her once more running strong. "Better than 'at," he rasped. 

"That's what I thought." Pouty lips trailed nibbling kisses across his jaw until she reached his ear, her tongue flicking out to tease the lobe. "Flint?"

"Mmm?

"Fuck me again. Captain's orders."


	47. That Thing About Pride and Falls... (Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny Weasley writes a cautionary tale for her unborn child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for 13oct as part of my [Summer 2014 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/261539.html). I've done a bit of experimentation in how this story is told; Ginny sat down to write her version of events, and of course, Draco had to add in his edits (that'd be the italicized text, he says). Anyway, I hope it turns out clear enough to follow.

~~_This is a story about Ginny Weasley's insatiable lust for one Draco Malfoy._ ~~

Malfoy, stop editing my story. Besides, that's not what this is about. And that sure as hell isn't the title.

_Oh, really? Please enlighten me. I thought this all came about because you couldn't stop yourself from shoving your hand down my trousers._

No, this came about because you are a smug, overbearing, conceited arse.

_I love it when you don't hold back. I've got the scars on my back to prove it._

You're such a...

_Amazing lover? Handsome fellow? Ladies' man, man's man, man about town?_

Jerk.

_For a writer, you really need to break out the thesaurus more often._

I'm sorry, who makes their living off their trust fund?

_It really is hard living a life of leisure. I don't know how I do it -- or why you do it. But then again, I suppose I wasn't born with the desire to promote my own self-worth? Things are much simpler when you're a hated bastard._

I don't know why I'm bothering to write this all down. I also don't know why I bother with you. You really are a Grade A wanker, you know that, right?

_Why would I wank off when I've got you?_

I think your hairline is receding.

Ha. Knew that would have him running off to the loo. Now, I have no idea why I'm writing this all down. Maybe so one day, I can look back and remind myself what tends to happen when I give my own cleverness too much credit. Also, because I certainly don't want you, my future spawn, to make the same mistakes as your Mum. You know that saying about pride and falls? Yeah. Welcome to my current life. So, without further ado, I give you...

** An Ode to Hubris (Or How Your Mother Got Stuck with a Pointy Bastard for a Partner) **

It all started because I got drunk.

Sorry. That's the way the world works. Besides, by the time you read this, I imagine you'll probably have done things I'd rather not think about at the moment (because that'll mean my unborn child is already old enough to do adult things, and really, my hormones can't take that right now). You know how things are. You drink too much firewhiskey, you do stupid things.

So yeah. I drank too much firewhiskey. And I wound up snogging a person I'd hated most of my life. Opposites attract? Yes, yes they do. 

While your Grandmum might tell you that babies come from storks or cabbage patches, again, you're old enough to know that's not the case. They come from sex, which is what this wound up evolving into (Sorry. But how _do_ you think you got here? Via owl?). I won't elaborate too much on that, but let's just say that before your father and I started properly dating, we were having a lot of it. 

Of course, this was all in private. Merlin forbid your snotty Daddy Dearest admit to others he was engaged in intimate relations with me. We kept it a secret for about eight months -- and that, sweet child of mine, is when everything went to Hell in a hand basket.

You see, your father -- well, you know him -- has a tendency to say things without thinking of anyone else. I really hope this isn't a trait you inherit, but if you do, it's all his fault. And I don't even remember what we were arguing about, but we had a spectacular row. He insulted me, I hexed him, we shouted some more, and my landlord threatened to evict me if we didn't remember to use a bloody Silencing Charm. I don't know, I think I saw him out with Pansy Parkinson (I really hope that cow has gained seven stone by the time you read this), and even though I _knew_ he didn't like her as more than a sister, I got bloody pissed.

(Sidenote: if you have a temper, that's my family's fault. Especially if you come out a ginger -- which I really hope you do. Your father doesn't think I know, but I know about his bet with Blaise about your hair color). 

I was upset. I wanted revenge. So... I broke into his flat (he had not yet deigned to give me a key of my own yet, and his wards weren't _that_ hard to dissemble) and charmed every single piece of clothing he owned (even his pants) into a shade of bright pink. 

Now, let's turn the story to your father. You'd think a sensible person would just magic it right back, wouldn't you? But when has Draco ever been sensible, really? Between you and me. _Noooo_. He actually -- and this is where my mouth dropped in shock -- actually left his house _wearing_ entire outfits in bright pink.

And you know what was worse? It became the biggest fashion trend that summer. Suddenly, everyone and their bloody house elves were wearing bright pink. And I'm not talking a pretty, feminine pink. No, this was a neon, retina-searing shade of that awful color. 

So then I switched out all his Falmouth gear for Chudley. (No, I didn't like Chudley then, and I don't like them now, and I imagine I'll never like them. This was just for sheer annoyance value). What did the wanker do? Wore it to the next Quidditch match -- and the Cannons _won_. 

That also explains how your father become Honorary Life Captain of that awful club. 

You get the idea. Whatever I did to get at him, he turned the tables back on me. I was so sure I'd be able to gain the upper hand -- I'm a Weasley! We're tricksy like that! -- I didn't truly gauge my opponent. 

Until the day I came home to find all my clothes emblazoned with "PROPERTY OF DRACO MALFOY" in bright turquoise. I tried every single spell I knew, plus all the ones in the books I borrowed from Auntie Hermione, and _nothing_ could get it off. The harder I tried, the brighter the words got. 

What I didn't know at the time? This was your father's idea of an apology.

_It worked, didn't it?_

Wasn't your property then, am not your property now. Took you long enough in the loo, by the way.

_The mirror was particularly chatty today. It wouldn't stop fawning over my good looks, and then it had advice for me to pass on to you since apparently, you never listen. No idea where it would get that impression._

Do feel free to toss yourself in front of the Knight Bus.

_And leave you alone and penniless in the world? I'd never be so heartless._

You knocked me up. I'm pretty sure that entitles me to your money if you die. 

_You heartless wench, you. Is that why you wrote all this down? So our child will recognize that when they feel slightly insane and have ideas that are better suited to a twelve year-old, they'll realize they're in love?_

Close enough. Now stop writing in my notebook. This is my story.

_No no, it's ours. And I'd say you came out on top -- you did wind up with a handsome, rich husband who loves you. Admit it, a little bruised ego is good for you._

Fine. I love you, Ferret. What do you have to say about _that_?

_Mischief managed._


	48. Wicked and Divine (Your Innocence Is Mine) (Blaise Zabini/Dominique Weasley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I own you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for tamlane as part of my [Summer 2014 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/261539.html).

_But certainly, the talk of the Quidditch world is Dominique Weasley. The middle daughter of war heroes Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour, the twenty-one year old has taken the sport by storm. In her rookie season with the Kenmare Kestrals, she has already scored fifteen goals in her first five matches, vaulting the Kestrals from last season's position of eighth to a respectable third place standing thus far. Off the pitch, it seems the young Miss Weasley is just as hot a commodity. Sources report seeing her in the company of Duff Wood, eldest son of famed Puddlemere keeper Oliver Wood, leaving a London nightclub._

_We think it's certainly safe to say we haven't seen the last of this hot young rising star._

Blaise set the newspaper down on his desk and leaned back in his chair, the gleaming leather creaking as he steepled his fingers together in thought. Duff Wood. _That_ was who she was seeing. He wasn't _jealous_ of the young man -- far from it. But Dominique had been remarkably tight lipped about who she'd be spending her time with the previous Thursday. Now he knew.

A knock sounded on the door, and his secretary poked her head in. "Miss Weasley's here, sir."

"Send her in."

The door opened, and the object of his thoughts stepped inside the room. His secretary discreetly withdrew and shut the door behind her, the soft noise echoing in the space between the room's two occupants. It was silent as they sized one another up.

Dominique, for her part, was filthy. Fresh from the practice pitch, wisps of blonde hair that had escaped her severe ponytail framed her face. Her pale skin was pink with exertion, and there was a smattering of freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks; freckles he knew also littered her skin in other, more intimate places. Leather trousers hugged trim legs and framed an arse her training jumper couldn't quite hide from his eyes.

She was sweaty and disheveled. Blaise wanted nothing more than to bend her over his desk and fuck her senseless.

"Mr. Zabini." A sarcastic curl to her lips. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I feel as if I'm been summoned to the headmaster's office."

Blaise arched a brow at her. "Am I so intimidating, Miss Weasley?" For any other member of the Kestrals squad, he imagined a summons to the owner's office _would_ be a matter of concern. Dominique knew better. She was toying with him. Despite her freckles, she was much more Delacour than Weasley. He remembered all too well how her aunt could play a man with no more than a look. He'd bedded her, too.

Perhaps it was the Veela blood. It was a potent thing, despite it's dilution through the generations. 

"Not at all, _sir_." Stepping closer to his desk, she didn't bother with the open chairs. Instead, she perched herself on the side of the polished oak desk, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning back on her hands. His gaze responded as she'd planned, dark eyes taking in the way her breasts strained against her jumper, travelling the length of her body to her thighs. Tease. 

When he glanced up at her face, her blue eyes were bright with amusement. "What can I do for you? You're usually more discreet than this."

"I don't have to be discreet if I chose not. I _own_ you." It was a subtle reminder of who in the room _really_ held the power. She could thrust her breasts out at him, sit on his desk and spread her legs, but _he_ was the person in charge in their relationship -- convoluted as it was. He owned the Kenmare Kestrals, and through the team, her. 

"You own my contract," Dominique replied sharply, arching one fine blonde brow at him. "You do not own me. I'm not your pet, I'm your employee."

Blaise's lips curled. Unable to help himself, he ran a hand over her thigh. The contrast of his dark skin against her worn, white trousers was aesthetically pleasing, he noted in an off-handed fashion. "I don't own you?" His fingers curled, digging into her flesh. "I could sell your contract to the Cannons. I could force you to trade your Firebolt contract for a a Cleansweep Eleven. You have the lifestyle you want because of _me_." His hand slid up her thigh to cup the warm spot between her legs. "Don't forget it."

Dominique tossed her head back and laughed. She _laughed_.

He was momentarily taken aback when she swung herself around on the desk to face him, planting her feet on either side of him so he was leaning forward between her legs. Scooting closer, her hips canted against his hand, and she hummed in pleasure. "Then do it."

He blinked in surprise. "Beg pardon?"

"I said, _do it_." Moving closer to him, Dominique slid off the desk and into his lap, her legs straddling his waist. Blaise's hand fell to the wayside when she pressed against him, her breasts straining against his chest and her deft fingers clutching his crisp Oxford shirt. "Sell my contract to the Cannons. Persuade Firebolt to drop my endorsement deal. Reduce my salary. Do what it is you have to do to think you control me. But I am who I am because of _me_. You don't have a thing to do with my talent. I don't barter my body with you." 

She rolled her hips against his, and Blaise felt himself grow hard inside his trousers. Biting back a groan, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her fluttering pulse point, teeth raking over her skin. Little blonde minx was right -- not that he'd admit it. 

And then, she was off his lap and striding toward the door. "Always fun having these little chats, bossman. Maybe we'll do it again tomorrow night."

He would not chase after her. Blaise Zabini did not _chase_ anyone. She could have the upper hand -- for now. Tomorrow night, she'd be naked in his bed, and he'd make her _beg_ for release. He might even give it to her, after she went to her knees for him. In the meantime, he could control himself and ignore his erection. He was forty-five, not fourteen. His cock didn't control him. 

"Miss Weasley?"

Dominique paused, and glanced over his shoulder. "Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise paused, letting his gaze linger on her shapely arse for a moment. Reaching out for his copy of the _Prophet_ , he held up the paper. "Duff Wood?"

She was quiet, and then she shrugged. "He makes me laugh. And he doesn't pretend to control me."

His lips twitched in a smirk. "You _like_ it when I control you."

"Do I?" Her lips puckered, and she blew him a kiss before slipping out of the office and shutting the door behind her. 

"Oh, Miss Weasley." Her name fell quietly from his lips in the empty room, and despite himself, his smirk curled into a full smile. "You have so much to learn."


	49. Watercolor Memories (Dean Thomas/Lavender Brown, Dean Thomas/Gabrielle Delacour)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art was foreplay to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Art was foreplay to Dean. 

How many evenings had he spent with his lover, sketching invisible posies and vines along her naked back? Too many to count. He'd dipped the fine bristles of his brush along her belly, dipping it into the wetness between her legs. Her pale skin covered in paint; later, they would soak in the bath and help each other to be clean again (which then usually led to being dirty. Again). 

So when Lavender had sauntered into his studio and dropped her silk kimono to the floor, he'd thought nothing of it beyond a quick sketch and a quick shag. "Draw me like one of your French girls," she'd giggled as she arranged herself on the chaise longue beneath the window.

A Muggle movie quote, he recognized. His mind remembered something else.

_Silk._

_Her skin was like silk. Dean loved the way it felt beneath his touch, the way her body trembled when he put his hands on her. A contrast of light and dark; it pleased his artistic sensibilities. Gabrielle was a myriad of colors -- long hair the color of corn silk, her toned limbs pale with delicate blue veins pulsing just beneath the surface. And pink. He could never forget pink. Skin flushed pink when she arched beneath him in bed, small breasts tipped with firm pink nipples._

_The flush of wet, pink skin between her legs. Dean could get lost in her._

_His muse was perched on a stool framed by the double glass doors leading out to the tiny balcony. Outside, Paris was just waking up to take on another day. His tiny garret was cramped with a bed and not much else, but it was all he needed. Especially when the sun hit Gabrielle's body_ just _so, casting shadows at the curve of her back. Dean's hand moved the charcoal over the thick, textured paper, capturing the essence of his lover in black, white, and gray._

_"Beautiful," he murmured._

_She glanced back at him over her shoulder, and her lips curled in a seductive smile. "You are seeing something you like,_ non _?"_

_Dean's lips twitched in time with his cock. "Just hold that pose, love."_

"Dean?"

Lavender's voice jolted him out of the memory. "Sorry, what was that?"

The voluptuous blonde pouted at him. She crossed her arms over her breasts, pushing them up for his gaze. The gesture didn't go unnoticed, and he felt arousal stir despite the ghost of his former lover between them. "You were a million miles away, baby. What were you thinking about?"

Gabrielle Delacour. The woman documented in sketchbooks he'd locked away in his Gringotts vault. The one who'd got away. Nothing he could admit to the naked woman in his studio.

"The past, love. Nothing that matters now." He wiped his hands on his trousers and stood. "Now, where did you hide those pencils last time?"


	50. Power Play (Blaise Zabini/Lily Luna Potter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A great man once said everything is about sex. Except sex. Sex is about power."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the weekly posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

Lily knew sex. She knew the ways a woman could reduce a man to nothing more than a quivering bundle of need; how to push his buttons until instinct took over and demanded he satisfy his urge to _take_ a woman. She knew the sheer eroticism of an 'accidental' glimpse of skin.

A chance look down her shirt when she bent over her desk. Her skirt riding high on her thighs, a tiny hint of lace remarking on the garter beneath her clothes. How slender her neck looked when she stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. 

She knew all the best tricks in and out of the bedroom. Dominique, jokingly, had called her a trysexual -- " _You'll try anything once!"_ \-- and it was true. Lily knew men. She knew women. She knew _sex_.

What she didn't know was Blaise Zabini.

That much was evident from the thrill that ran through her as she watched him lock the door. Every movement was calculated. He was deliberate in his precision -- he _knew_ she was watching him, waiting for him. From the seemingly-delicate silk knots tying her wrists to the bedposts to the half-burned candles flickering in the bedroom. He planned every single detail.

And he knew every moment that passed just made her body more anxious. Already, Lily could feel the familiar wetness pooling between her legs, waiting for him to take her. She wanted him to _fuck_ her. 

Just as badly as she wanted it was the knowledge that he wouldn't. Not yet. 

Blaise slid out of his suit jacket and carefully folded it over the back of a nearby chair. Lily watched his hands slide over the fine material. Italian made, tailored to fit him like a glove. He was as fastidious as a Delacour with his appearance, not that she could find reason to complain. She'd had older men before, but Blaise Zabini was in a class all his own.

His dark eyes met hers, and she couldn't help but shift one thigh against the other in hopes of relieving the pressure there.

"A great man once told me that everything is about sex," he said conversationally, loosening the tie knotted at his throat. "Except sex." 

Reaching down, one dark hand slid up her stomach to cup a pert breast. He tweaked it casually, eliciting a gasp from the woman on the bed. Her other nipple hardened in response, and Lily inhaled sharply. 

She would _not_ beg him. 

"Sex," he continued as if her body's reactions were nothing, "is about power." His lips curled. "Do you understand?"

"Not yet." Lily strained against her bonds, but they held tight. Her voice was husky as she murmured, "Why don't you show me?"

"All in good time, Miss Potter." His hands went to his belt. "All in good time."


	51. Il Pleut (Dean Thomas/Pansy Parkinson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris is the most beautiful in the rain. Right. Tell _that_ to a woman with designer shoes and a broken umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [enchantedteapot](http://enchantedteapot.livejournal.com) as part of my [Summer 2014 Drabble Meme](http://leigh-adams.livejournal.com/261539.html).

Paris was a lovely city, even in the rain. There was a certain _je ne sais quoi_ about the way the winding cobblestone streets looked under a gray, drizzly sky. The tourists tended to stay inside during the rain, leaving the streets free from their ilk. It was normally a site Pansy very much enjoyed.

Paris, however, was _not_ a lovely city in the rain when she was in possession of a broken umbrella.

"Worthless ten galleon piece of rubbish," she muttered under her breath. The black umbrella would _not_ open, no matter how much she poked and prodded at it. And here she was, both her freshly coiffed hair and her green suede Louboutins dangerously close to ruination. She couldn't do magic -- not here, not in a Muggle area of the city -- and she was still at least two blocks from the nearest Apparition point. 

And to compound the matter, the doorway she'd stepped through to avoid the rain was not a charming sidewalk cafe, but a smelly falafel stand. Merlin, her clothes were going to _reek_.

" _Vous allez bien, madame?_ " 

Pansy shook her head irritably, glancing up at the man who'd spoken. " _Oui, ça va_." Her eyes narrowed at the somewhat familiar face, but she couldn't place him. Tall, dark skin, dark curls and an open, friendly face.

"It looks like you're having umbrella problems," he said easily, adding, "Pansy" at the end. "Here," he thrust out his own umbrella, "you can take mine."

She arched a brow at him. Clearly a fellow Englishman, but she still did not know who he was. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

He shrugged. "I don't suppose we've chatted, but we went to school together. It was a long time ago, though. I'm Dean. Dean Thomas."

_Ah_. Now she remembered him. The Gryffindor with singed sleeves -- a byproduct of being friendly with Hogwarts' most notorious pyrotechnic, Seamus Finnigan. She could not recall the last time she'd seen him; though, if she were being honest, she hadn't been keeping track. "I remember." She eyed his umbrella doubtfully, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "Your umbrella has _ducklings_ on it."

Dean grinned. "My little sister gave it to me. Does it's job, though. You look like you need it more than I do."

It looked harmless enough, for a bright blue umbrella emblazoned with tiny yellow ducks. Could Pansy sacrifice fashion for functionality -- at least for two blocks until she could return to the dry -- and odorless -- sanctity of the Ritz? She was sure touching it would burn her fingertips.

But then again, she was not ruining a perfect hairstyle in the bloody rain.

"Thank you," she said, the phrase awkward on her tongue as she took the garish umbrella from him. The vinyl and plastic was offensive to her eyes, but less so than a ruined dry-clean only dress. "I'll return it to you. Where should I send it?"

"17 Rue Tholozé. I've a small garret flat in Montmartre, but don't worry about it," he replied easily. Pansy watched him as he sat down in one of the plastic seats, crossing his long legs at the ankle. "I don't mind getting wet."

"Montmartre. That's very bohemian of you." The 18th arrondisment was a world away from her world on the Place Vendôme; tiny, sloped streets and street urchins, the red-light district, the whole 'starving artist' mantra against Haussmann's boulevards, world-renowned art and culture, _haute couture_ , and Michelin starred cuisine. "Is it too stereotypical of me to guess you're an artist?"

His crooked grin told her she'd guessed correctly. "Guilty, as charged. I suppose it's just as clichéd of me to assume you're staying at the Athénée?"

"You're not far off," she admitted. "And I must be getting back." She and Blaise had tickets to the opera that evening, and she was going to need to indulge in a bit of pampering to get the smell of spicy fried chickpeas out of her hair.

He rose to open the door for her. "Maybe we could meet again before you leave Paris? Save you the trouble of owling my umbrella." His lips twitched. 

Pansy's eyebrow rose, and she looked at him -- _really_ looked at him -- for the first time since they'd begun speaking. He was handsome, in an entirely ordinary fashion; he lacked the masculine beauty of Blaise, but he was a strong, sturdy looking sort of fellow. And from the hint of mirth in his eyes, she knew what he was asking.

"I have a fiancé," she informed him. 

His gaze flickered to the large diamond on her left hand. Undeterred, he shrugged. "I have a girlfriend."

Her own lips curled. "Then perhaps you should enjoy her charms this evening." Opening the umbrella, she stepped out into the rain. " _Merci pour votre aide_." Blue and yellow ducklings overhead and the smell of fried foods trailing after her, she walked out of the falafel shop and away from Dean Thomas.

She only looked back once.


	52. Candy Cane (Theodore Nott/Rose Weasley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders what she would taste like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 12/16/15 posting at HPHumpDrabbles on LiveJournal.

She was so fucking _pure_.

He couldn't help but think about how sweet it'd be to get beneath her robes. His hands itched to peel them away from her body, exposing her skin to his wandering gaze. Would she have a dusting of freckles over her chest -- he thought she might, judging from the smattering of pale dots on her slightly upturned nose. Or would her skin be pale and perfect. He almost hoped it was the latter; his fingers would leave marks more easily.

Watching during the staff meeting as she ran the nub of her quill over her pink lips, Theo nearly swore aloud. The girl had no idea what that sort of thing did to a man. It made him wonder what she'd taste like. He had a suspicion she tasted like candy canes, since he'd seen her sucking the peppermint sweet during the office Christmas party. 

Would she run her tongue around him the same way she licked the sticky sweetness from her fingers? 

How would she look, spread out over his desk? As soon as her robes were gone, he'd push the tight pencil skirt up over her hips to see what sort of knickers she wore. She seemed sensible, so they were likely cotton. (Unless one of her more knowledgeable cousins had talked her into lace or satin). Faced with such a bounty, what would he do first? Would he lick and tease her nipples, kissing them until the tips were puckered? Or would he press his fingers between her legs to see if she was as hot and wet there as he'd always hoped?

Theo groaned aloud at the mental image -- so much so that he nearly missed the knock on his office door. " _What_?"

The girl nearly jumped. "Mr. Nott, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I've just these files..."

Fuck Merlin, but the sight of her in-person was so much better than any fantasies he entertained. "Of course, Rose, do come in." As she stepped into his office, a predatory smile made his lips curl. Almost as an afterthought, he added one more simple request.

"Please shut the door."


End file.
